


Chasing Glory

by ADeedWithoutaName



Series: Catching Hell [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Demon!Dean, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, unrelated wincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-01-05 08:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 98,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12186444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: Sequel to "Catching Hell." Following the death of Gordon Walker, Sam Winchester is on the run with Dean, his demon Knight - and on a mission to do what Dean couldn't: complete the Trials and close the Gates of Hell. His fellow hunters, however, are reluctant to let him be, as are the conflicting forces of Heaven and Hell. Updates every other Friday.





	1. Chapter 1

_You probably know by now that most hunters live on the road and travel light. It cuts down on transit time if you can just go straight from one case to another without having to make a trip back to a permanent location for supplies. Most people also think it's safer, and I'd have to agree, to a certain extent. You're going to get monsters, officers of the law, and maybe even normal people chasing after you at some point (if you're any good, at least), and they'll have a much harder time finding and eating, arresting, or killing you if you don't have a fixed address. Whether or not you spend more than a few minutes there every couple of months, even a mongrel werewolf - pure id, no higher brain function - will know it's your den, and that, eventually, you'll come back._

_Living out of a car and sleeping in a motel room (or that same car, if you're being really thrifty) is definitely safer and easier, but only physically. You might not give a lot of thought to how losing your home will affect you emotionally. Those few of us who were born into the life, into the travel and the drifting, definitely don't. But pulling up your roots, no matter if it's by choice or necessity, hurts you. You might not feel it right away, but I can guarantee you will eventually._

_-_ Welcome to Hunting,  _Sam Winchester_

* * *

"You know you're limping, right?"

Sam stopped for a second. He felt the sun pouring down on him as he thought his way down to his calves and feet, and consciously shifted his weight. Sweat pooled on his neck, under the heavy weight of his hair, as he started walking again - this time really thinking about it, so he didn't end up favoring either of his two perfectly-good legs. Rocks and dust moved against the soles of his boots, and his feet hurt.

"No," he replied. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you're real bad about it." Sam glanced at Dean as he breezed past him, making it to the top of the bald hill they were climbing almost a full minute before Sam did. Sam kept his eyes on him as he got steadily closer. With the sun behind him, he was just a black silhouette with his hands on his hips. Sam didn't need to see his freckled skin to know there wouldn't be so much as a drop of sweat on it. Even in spite of the denim, flannel, and canvas he was covered in.

"Maybe you should have me practice walking, then." Sam was trying hard not to pant. He'd like to think he was in pretty good shape, for a guy who'd spent the last seven years writing books in a cabin, but it was boiling out here and this hill was really steep. Plus, the duffel bag full of heavy weapons and targets slung across his back was making things difficult. "Instead of shooting. I know how to shoot." He stopped for a second, and did his best to make it look like he was thinking instead of catching his breath. "In fact, I might've been able to shoot before I could read."

"Knowing how big a nerd you are, I seriously doubt that." When Sam finally reached the top of the hill, Dean took the duffel from him; Sam wondered why he hadn't just carried it himself. "And sure, you can shoot, but any moron can aim and pull a trigger. Takes a little more to actually hit stuff...which you can't."

"I can hit stuff." He didn't bother mustering up the energy to sound defensive. Just sat down on the nearest, least-dusty rock as Dean unzipped the bag - and forced himself not to leap back to his feet when the heat of it almost instantly seeped through his jeans and boxers. It wouldn't burn him, but god, was it ever unpleasant. He  _hated_ Nevada.

"Sure," Dean agreed. He was kneeling on the ground, apparently still unaffected by the heat, and frowning at the shooting targets as he pulled them out of the bag. "With a shotgun. At close range."

"I'm fine with a pistol, too. And a rifle."

"Not when I asked you to show me how 'fine' you were." He tore the plastic wrap off, sending a couple rectangles of heavy cardboard with targets printed on them straight to the sun-baked dirt. "Couldn't hit a big-ass tree from twenty feet away with a single shot." He picked up a rectangle, frowning at it. "So, do we, like, tape these to stuff, or...?"

"Didn't you buy some kind of stand to put them in, too?" Dean went back to digging through the bag. "I already told you I was tired then. And off-balance."

"Yeah, we need to work on your stance," Dean agreed. He'd found the stand-thing, a frame and legs made out of plastic and metal, and was now trying to figure out how to unfold it. "I'm guessing you practiced all of one time in the last decade, but you were gimpy when you did it, so you've gotta unlearn that."

"Dean, c'mon. It's hot." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away wet. "Could you maybe try to be less of a dick?"

"You gotta learn how to shoot," Dean replied, although at least he did sound a little apologetic now. He was gone for a second, popping into view way across the flat top of the hill (did that make it a butte instead of a hill? Sam wasn't even sure what a butte was), and then he was back, having left behind a target on top of another hot rock. "Or get better at it, at least. 'Cause you're not hunting 'til I know you can kill something to save your life, and you're not getting anywhere near the First Trial 'til you've hunted again."

"Fine." Sam guessed he understood Dean's reasoning, and that he was being protective, not controlling. "I still don't get why we can't do this at a shooting range. There're only about a million around here."

"Too crowded." That'd become a common response from Dean in the months since they'd left Sam's cabin and, eventually, Bobby's scrapyard. "Here. Load it."

A handgun and a box of ammunition landed in Sam's lap. Both were familiar. Unlike the targets, they hadn't bought them at the local sporting goods store. Dean had grabbed them when he'd gone back to Sam's cabin to get the notebook the fate of the world more or less depended on, among other things. According to him, the place had been trashed, which Sam had been expecting. It must've only been demons, and stupid ones, in there by the time Dean went, though, because none of his weapons had been taken - not even the Kurdish knife. Hunters (or more competent demons) would've grabbed everything, especially that.

Sam had the gun (a Glock; small and light) loaded in about thirty seconds. He'd always been good at that, courtesy of the roughly one billion hours his dad had had him spend field-stripping every kind of weapon imaginable when he was younger. He glanced up at Dean with a raised eyebrow when he was finished.

"So you don't need to work on that, at least," Dean noted. "C'mon." He helped Sam to his feet, and Sam hoped that how glad he was to be off the rock wasn't too obvious. He followed Dean a ways past the duffel bag, then watched as he dragged an X in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Stand here. Show me your stance again."

Suppressing a sigh, Sam did as he was told. Feet planted (equally firmly, he made sure), chin lowered, gun raised and arms straight. He saw Dean studying him out of the corner of his eye, his own arms folded.

"Okay, well, you're not as bad as you were last time," he admitted after a little while. "You're self-correcting. That's good." He moved in. "Couple things, though." He corrected Sam with gentle touches. "Your life's gonna be a whole lot easier if you don't lock your elbows. And you don't gotta aim to the right of whatever you're trying to hit."

"Sorry. Guess I was thinking of archery."

"We'll probably end up covering that, too, but guns are more important." Dean took his hands away, apparently satisfied with Sam's stance now. "Wait one sec. Don't shoot yet."

Sam turned his head to see Dean digging into one of the pockets on his jeans. The one he knew he'd started keeping rubber bands in recently. He rolled his eyes.

"My hair's fine, Dean," he told him.

"It's one good breeze away from falling into your eyes," Dean replied, stepping up behind him. He swept his hair back with one hand and wrapped the rubber band around it with the other, movements smooth and practiced; he got all the loose strands in one go, which made Sam suspect he used telekinesis, too. The rubber band caught and pulled slightly at his hair, just like they always did, but wearing actual hair ties (or, god forbid, scrunchies) just felt too...girly.

"There's not gonna be one good breeze. The wind hasn't blown the whole time we've been here," Sam pointed out, though he stood still and let Dean put his hair in a ponytail anyway. "I'm starting to think this entire state's just dead air."

"Desert, end of summer," Dean responded. He stepped back as he finished. "Happens sometimes."

_I miss the mountains_. Sam thought it, loudly, but didn't say it. He'd kept from whining so far - just barely - and he'd rather not start now. "Wish we could go somewhere cooler."

"Gotta stay out west," Dean reminded him. "East's crawling with demons, not to mention hunters who hate you. And me, but that goes without saying."

Sam grimaced. "Don't remind me."

"Guess we could go north," Dean continued, walking backwards until he could stink down onto a rock of his own, "but north means forests, and forests mean more monsters." He looked around, maybe checking for cars or hikers. Sam couldn't imagine anyone dumb enough to be out in this heat, though. Besides them. "Same with big cities."

"I know." Dean seemed to have a hard time remembering that Sam had grown up hunting, before the wendigo had gotten hold of him. And that he'd stayed in the life even after he'd been hurt. "Can I start shooting now, or...?"

"Sure, so long as you don't want the headphones," Dean said with a shrug.

"Never used 'em before." Sam checked to make sure the gun was lined up correctly, squinting. It was bright up here. Hot and bright. He should've brought sunglasses...did he even own a pair? "Told you not to buy them."

He fired. Three shots in quick succession - grouping, like his father had taught him. The gun kicked against his hands, the recoil familiar and almost comforting, and his biceps automatically tensed to counteract it. Muscle memory in action.

The cardboard shivered, so he knew he'd hit it, but between the light and the distance, he couldn't quite tell where. The air was shimmering, too, where heat was rising from the ground. And now there was sweat in his eyes, which was bothering him way more than his hair ever would have been able to. He'd been about to fire again, but first he lowered the gun and wiped his eyes with one forearm. He'd barely gotten the gun back up before Dean stopped him again.

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam heard him push himself up off of his rock and come over. "Don't shoot." Sam looked at him. He kind of had to, when Dean stepped in front of him and nudged his left leg with one boot. "You're favoring it again."

"Oh, my - " Sam dropped both hands and glanced up at the sky. The gun landed heavily against his thigh, and he realized that he hadn't switched the safety back on. It was basically pure luck that he hadn't just blown a huge hole in his own foot. But then, at least, he would've had a reason to limp. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"'Course not. It's not your fault." Dean looked at him with something a lot like sympathy. Probably as close as he could get to it right now. Sam knew he was impatient. And inhuman. "It's just the way you've been used to moving and standing for almost a decade. You're not gonna break those habits in only a couple months...plus, the left one's still weaker than the right. We gotta keep working on that."

"I don't even know what I'm doing wrong," Sam admitted. "You wanna...help me out?" He gestured vaguely to his legs. "I've still got a dozen shots left. Might as well take those."

"At least," Dean agreed, before putting his hands on Sam's waist. He jerked back almost as soon as he touched him. "Jesus, Sammy. You're  _soaking_."

Sam's lips thinned. He really wasn't sure how he felt about that nickname. His dad had used it, too, and it just sounded weird coming out of Dean's mouth - especially because he knew and had just kept on using it. But, yeah, now that he mentioned it, his T-shirt did seem to be sticking to him pretty bad. And he'd even worn a lighter-colored one.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied. He could feel the sun on the back of his neck, bare now where Dean had put his hair up, and wondered if he shouldn't've worn sunscreen. But that was another thing he wasn't sure he had, and he didn't even remember the last time he'd burned. He tended to tan instead. "It's boiling up here."

Dean frowned. Sam recognized it: it was the special, guilty frown that popped up on Dean's face whenever he realized that he'd forgotten Sam was human and, therefore, about a million times more fragile than he was. Sam usually saw it at least once a day. He couldn't fault Dean for letting the fact that he was made of very high-maintenance meat slip his mind; after all, they'd been together a few months, but before that, Dean'd spent over a thousand years with other demons.

"Sorry," he said. "Should've thought ahead and brought water. You wanna call it a day?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. "You're right: I've gotta improve my aim. And I already told you that I've got twelve bullets left in here." He waggled the gun. "Fix my stance and let me finish this up."

"Okay." Dean still looked concerned when he grabbed Sam's hips again and adjusted him, making him put more weight on his left side. To Sam, it felt like he was off-balance now, like the majority of his weight was resting on his left leg. He knew Dean had just equalized him, though. "Soon as that clip's empty, then, I'll go grab the target and we can see how you did. And then I think we'd better get you outta the sun."

"All right," Sam agreed. Partly to humor Dean and partly because he was remembering the rattling, leaking swamp cooler back in their motel room more fondly by the minute. He also wished Dean hadn't mentioned water. He'd kill for a bottle right now.

He aimed again, pulled the trigger. The gunshots echoed across the desert around them. Sam wasn't worried about the local sheriff showing up to investigate. First of all, they were pretty far outside town, and second of all, he heard shots all the time. People came out here to shoot at cans or scorpions or targets, like they were doing. Apparently, there just wasn't that much to do in this town. And nobody else liked the shooting ranges, either.

Using a gun, even to hit a target that wasn't charging at him with fangs and claws bared, was like riding a bike (although Sam had never actually learned to do that): he'd never forgotten and it came back easily. He was relieved. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but Dean had been right about him not practicing his marksmanship all that much while he'd been living at the cabin. He just hadn't really seen the point. He was never going to hunt again, and he wasn't going to have to shoot anything unless it got close enough for him to practically be able to do it with his eyes closed.

He counted the shots he'd fired, because his dad had pounded the importance of that into him when he was still in grade school. He lowered the gun once the last round was out of the chamber. Dean - who'd been focused on the target, eyes having flickered to black when Sam wasn't looking - glanced at him.

"Done?" he asked, eyes returning to normal with that insect-wing sound that Sam had gotten so used to recently.

"Done."

"You didn't do half-bad. Lemme show you." He left, blinking across the hill. Sam didn't even have time to eject the empty clip from the gun before he was back, cardboard target in hand. "See?"

Sam took it when Dean offered it to him. The stand was still attached to it, so it was heavy, and it was black, so it was hot. He eyed it critically. He counted ten bullet holes, and only six were inside the concentric neon rings that'd been printed on the cardboard. None had hit the center.

"You got more than half into the target, at least," Dean pointed out, tone encouraging.

"Yeah, but my aim's still not great," Sam replied. "I need to get better. I mean, some things are like humans, where they'll go down just so long as you put enough bullets in the head or trunk, but with werewolves and skinwalkers, you  _have_ to hit the heart. And that's a pretty small target."

"That's exactly why we're doing this," Dean agreed. "But you did way better than I thought you would today. No offense." He took the target back from Sam and separated it from the stand, dropping both into the bag. "We'll keep working on it. Might try to come out here early in the morning next time - you're looking pretty red. And wet."

"It's called 'sweat,' Dean," Sam replied. Seemed like they'd switched attitudes at some point - Dean was optimistic about Sam's shooting ability, and Sam had just admitted that he needed more practice. Maybe it'd been seeing the target, the physical example of what he could and couldn't do. "Humans sweat when they get hot. Remember?"

"I remember that you're gross," Dean said. He held the bag open for the gun, and Sam double-checked that it was empty before putting it in. He'd eject the clip, and then probably reload it, later. "All kinds of crap comes outta you."

"At least I don't smell like rotten eggs." When Dean reached for his shoulder with his free hand, Sam shook his head and took half a step backwards. "I told you - I don't want you teleporting me anymore unless it's an emergency."

"Nobody around to see, but fine." Shrugging, Dean brushed past him on his way to the edge of the hill, and Sam followed.

"You didn't like being teleported when you were human," Sam pointed out, as he began picking his way down the side of the hill. It was steeper going back down than it'd been coming up.

"Not by angels." To his credit, Dean stayed right by Sam the whole way down, keeping the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder with one hand and steadying him with the other. Even though he could've teleported straight to their car on his own, or just sprinted straight down the hill without knocking a single rock loose. Sam definitely wasn't anywhere near that sure-footed. Dean had to have stopped him from faceplanting on those same sharp, sandy, sun-heated rocks at least half a dozen times.

"Shit!" Sam burned himself on the chrome handle of the car when he grabbed it - it felt like a stovetop. He had to use a handful of his T-shirt to open the passenger side door, and he grimaced as he practically fell inside, the black leather feeling a lot like the rock he'd sat on right after reaching the top of the hill. Maybe a little softer. "Turn on the air conditioning. Now."

"Gonna take a little while to cool down," Dean reminded him, tossing the bag into the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel.

"Wouldn't if we had a car that'd been made in this century." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, heavy and damp, and swore silently to himself as they caught at the base of his short, messy ponytail. It wasn't until he'd yanked the rubber band out and shaken his hair loose that he realized Dean hadn't even put the key in the ignition. Because he was too busy glaring at him. "What?"

"Never mind. I'm not having this conversation with you again." Sam raised his eyebrows briefly, and looked away. That was fine with him. He was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach, and the last thing he needed right now was yet another repeat of Dean's "everything that came off the line after 1980 is crap on wheels" lecture. "You'd think you'd appreciate it, seeing as it's your damn car."

"It was my dad's." And up until several months ago, no one had driven it since he'd died. It'd spent the last seven (nearly eight) years sitting in Bobby's scrapyard, the battery slowly draining and the paint flaking. Sam hadn't thought about it since moving to the cabin. He'd been embarrassed as hell when, shortly after leaving the hospital for the first time, he learned that Bobby had paid to have the damn thing towed all the way from Vermont to South Dakota. All his stuff had already been take out of it, and as far as he'd been concerned, it just could have stayed at the remote trailhead where his father had parked it. Or an impound lot, eventually.

He'd grown up in it, but it hadn't meant anything to him once his dad died. In fact, he hadn't even liked looking at it because of the memories it brought up. Of two perfect legs, having a family, being useful. He'd never been into cars, anyway. Didn't even really like driving all that much. He'd learned at ten, but only because he had to.

Bobby, on the other hand, had  _definitely_ been into cars. After all, before hunting - and even during, to a certain extent - they'd been his career: fixing, scrapping, buying, selling. His idea of a relaxing afternoon was replacing an engine (and drinking, but that might've come along with hunting. Or losing Dean. Or both). He'd never quite managed to spark that same kind of love in Sam. It shouldn't've come as a surprise that he'd been more successful with Dean.

"Shame you didn't inherit his good taste," Dean replied, a little bit of acid in his voice as he finally started the car up. The  _1967 Chevrolet Impala._  Sam had forgotten its real name, might never have known it, but Dean had made sure that he'd learned it when he found the car tucked away in a remote corner of the scrapyard. Where Bobby had put it, understanding how Sam felt about it. Sam had still been healing at that point, from Gordon and the swarm of demons that'd descended on his cabin, and Dean, bored, was exploring his childhood home. "Sorry."

"For what?" Sam wasn't sure which was more annoying: when Dean forgot that he had emotions and physical needs, or when he overcorrected and assumed that everything was either going to kill him or trigger a massive breakdown. Like he didn't have plenty of his own triggers.

For example, the exploring. Most of the time, it just put him in a bad mood. He didn't seem to be able to put into words what upset him more: the things that'd changed or the things that hadn't. He'd been ecstatic when he found the Impala, though. Started spending his days - and most of his nights, too - restoring it, because they needed a car. It took a while for Sam to tell him he was already familiar with it, though Dean figured out it'd used to belong to a hunter when he found the space for an arsenal in the trunk.

Sam tried to argue that something less flashy would be better, but Dean wouldn't budge. Especially once he knew it was technically Sam's car, and that it wasn't any lingering grief or bad memories that was making him reluctant; the years had deadened a lot of his negative associations with the car. Dean was pretty practical when it came to everything but cars. And music. And food and alcohol. It was kind of a relief he couldn't eat or drink.

If Sam was being honest, he missed living alone. Or living with roommates who were more like pets or prisoners than equal partners. He wouldn't go so far as to say that Dean was obnoxious, but...it was an adjustment. Especially because they were living in one small space after another and he'd realized a while back that he hadn't known Dean all that well beforehand.

All the vents in the car were aimed at the passenger side, since Dean always drove and never got hot or cold. They started blowing warm air on Sam as soon as the engine turned over, and he narrowed his eyes. It dried the sweat on him, at least, but it definitely wasn't pleasant. The temperature in the cab didn't start dropping in earnest until they'd nearly reached town, and by that point, of course, it was useless.

Back at the motel, Sam made a beeline through the humid dimness of their room to the bathroom, twisting only the right knob in the shower cubicle and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor for now. There were no windows in here, so the darkness was almost complete, but he didn't bother turning on a light before stepping in under the icy spray. He was going to keep his eyes closed, anyway.

Over the sound of water hitting the preformed plastic, Sam heard Dean come in and drop the duffel bag on their bed. It was hard to tell, but he thought he unzipped it and took care of the gun Sam used. And the bullet-riddled target. Then he moved towards the bathroom.

Sam hadn't even thought to close the door, but Dean knocked on it anyway. "Can I come in?"

Before answering him, Sam tipped his had back and opened his mouth, gulping down a few big mouthfuls of the water falling from the showerhead. It tasted metallic and he was aware, as soon as he'd had his fill, that he'd drunk too much too fast and that his stomach would hurt soon, but it'd probably been worth it. He knew he had to have been dehydrated.

"Yeah, sure," Sam told Dean. He spat out half a mouthful of water he no longer wanted. "It's cold, though. I'll probably keep it that way for another minute or two." It still felt good, refreshing, and he wanted to bring up goosebumps before he touched the hot water knob.

"Doesn't make any real difference to me." Sam heard clothes hitting the floor, probably on top of the ones he'd piled there already. Then the cheap, mildewed curtain was pulled aside and Dean stepped into the tiny cubicle with him. "Were you that bad off? That you needed a cold shower?"

Sam shrugged. Dean would be able to see it if his eyes were black, and even if they weren't, he had to have felt it. With how close they were.

"I just got hot," he replied. "It's gonna happen. 'Specially here."

"You really don't like Nevada, do you?" Dean asked, voice teasing. Sam heard a hint of his Dakota accent, too.  _Nev_ -ah- _da._ Kind of interesting how it'd somehow survived a millennium in Hell - Sam had a sudden urge to write about that.

"Ugh." Sam groaned and rested his head against the nearest wall with a loud  _thud_. "It's just so hot. And flat. I didn't have any idea this place was so freaking boring - when I hear 'Nevada,' I think 'Vegas.'"

"You haven't spent a whole lotta time in this state, have you?" Dean observed. He had a hand resting on Sam's back, and it felt hot instead of his usual perfectly-median temperature, so Sam must be finally cooling down.

"I was mostly East Coast and Midwest back when I was active," Sam answered. "South, too. And then I stayed put in Colorado for seven years."

"Pretty sure it was Wyoming, actually."

"Whatever. It was in the Rockies." Sam's right shoulder was starting to hurt, unused to absorbing the recoil from a handgun.

"You're shivering," Dean observed. Realizing that he was right, Sam nudged the cold water down and turned the hot water on. What started coming out of the showerhead was probably only lukewarm, but it burned pleasantly against his near-numb skin. "Getting time to take off again, so we'll be outta here soon. We can head somewhere cooler this time - and less flat. California?"

"California'd be okay." Sam had applied to Stanford University when he was seventeen. Less than a month before losing his mobility and his dad in one fell swoop. He thought about bringing it up, but then decided against it.

"How d'you feel about how you did today?" Dean asked, changing the subject. Sam sighed.

"You know how I feel, don't you?"

"Yeah, but it's a lot easier to understand it when you explain it. You're kind of a mess, emotion-wise." Sam rolled his eyes, but humored Dean.

"Not great," he admitted. "I didn't realize I'd let myself get so rusty. You were right about me needing to work on my aim - I can hit the broad side of a barn, but that's about it."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Dean told him. "Again."

"I need practice," Sam replied, irritated. Dean had been the one to tell him that in the first place.

"Well, yeah - but you're gonna get it, and you're probably gonna be just fine with a gun after only a little while," Dean replied. He pulled away from Sam in the dark, and even though he couldn't go far without teleporting, it was eerie. At least until he started talking again. "'Cause you've already been taught, and you were good at it." Sam heard him grab something off the floor, or maybe out of the little alcove shelf sunk into one of the walls. "Plus, even though shooting's a really major part of hunting, it definitely ain't the only one."

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Washing your hair." A cap popped, and a bottle squelched loudly as it was squeezed. "It's gross. It gets gross way too fast; you might wanna cut it."

Sam was shaking his head and making a negative noise in the back of his throat before Dean had even finished talking. He could practically see him shrug.

"Okay, fine. Whatever, Samson." Sam hadn't realized that Dean was reaching for him until he touched his scalp, and he flinched reflexively. Dean didn't comment as he started working shampoo through his hair. "Anyway - hunting. You're basically the best ever at research, which is a huge part. Then you're just fine with knives and axes and machetes, and you're good at sparring. Somebody teach you to use your height?" After Sam nodded, he continued. "Yeah, thought so. You can hit hard and lift basically whatever you're gonna need to, too, so it's a good thing you kept yourself strong." His hands suddenly stopped moving on Sam's head, and he was about to ask him what was wrong when he dropped them, gloved in suds, to his hips and adjusted him for what felt like the millionth time that day. "The top half of yourself, at least."

Sam gritted his teeth in frustration, not sure if he was mad at himself for doing it or Dean for pointing it out. He was just...fed up, after only a few months of having normal, intact muscles in both legs. A sudden pain in his gums forced him to relax his jaw before he broke one of his teeth off at the roots.

"Maybe I should start jogging again," he said, trying to sound casual and not that upset a second before he remembered that demons were empaths. It probably would've failed even if Dean hadn't been able to sense his feelings, though. "I used to almost every day when I was a teenager. Better hold off on it while we're still here, though; heat stroke's about the last thing I need right now."

Dean didn't respond. Not right away, at least. He just cleaned Sam - his hair, his body, then his face. They almost always showered together, even though Dean didn't need it nearly as much as Sam did, and Dean almost always washed him. Sam was still waffling back and forth on how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was soothing, but on the other, it was also disempowering. It made him feel like a little kid or a pet in a lot of ways. Not that either of those were a wholly inaccurate way to describe his relationship with Dean.

He never told him to back off and let him take care of himself, though. Because it was nice, and made him feel protected and loved, and helped him relax. All things he'd been starved for over the past few years. So of course this time was no exception.

"I'm sorry," Dean said eventually. He wasn't really scrubbing Sam anymore. Mostly just letting the water rinse him off. "It was my fault you had such a hard time up there. Like I said before, we should've brought water. And you were right - I really was being a dick."

"Drop it," Sam grunted. He'd been feeling better, standing under the drizzle of warm water with his eyes half-closed, but Dean's apology brought some of his annoyance back. "Either it'll click for you one day, that I'm human, or it won't. And it's not that big of a deal if it doesn't."

More silence from Dean. Sam assumed he'd hurt his feelings (he knew Dean had plenty of his own, even though he claimed that most were weird and stunted) and made a mental note to try and turn down the bitchiness. Especially when Dean spoke again, changing the subject.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Not really. I'm okay for now." Sam had gotten a salad at the local restaurant they'd hit before heading out into the desert. He never had much of an appetite when it was hot, and he always felt weird eating in public with Dean. Who never ate.

"Let's take a nap, then," Dean suggested. "I know you haven't been sleeping well, so it wouldn't hurt you to catch some Zs." He touched him. Not washing or correcting, just touching. "Plus, it'll hopefully be cooler when you wake up. Maybe we can get more done."

"Okay." Sleep didn't sound so bad. Sam twisted both knobs until they shut off, then swept the curtain back and stepped out of the cubicle. He hadn't thought to put a towel or anything down - he'd been too focused on cooling off. So he dripped directly onto the tile.

The light flicked on. Dean. Sam squinted, reminded of the sunlight on top of the hill until his pupils adjusted. At least he could see to grab a towel and start drying himself off. Dean followed him, stepping around the piles of clothes on the floor. The bathroom, like most motel bathrooms, was only slightly larger than the average postage stamp, so there wasn't enough room for both of them. They stepped out into the larger room under a silent agreement. The evaporative cooler in the window vibrated and dripped, and the humidity it filled the room with made Sam's skin feel damp even after he'd finished toweling off.

"We're gonna have to do laundry again soon," he commented, nodding at the clothes on the floor as he stepped back into the bathroom to hang his towel up. Dean groaned loudly.

"I  _hate_ laundry."

"I know you do." Sam gathered the clothes up. His own were still damp with sweat, which really was gross, Dean was right. He dropped the boots in front of the bed and started stuffing the rest into their laundry bag. It was made of heavy canvas, which was a good thing. It probably would've split at the seams by now, otherwise. "You're lucky you weren't at my cabin that long. You would've hated doing dishes and cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the floor and changing the bed even more."

His tone was light, but there was a pang when he mentioned his cabin. Even though he was talking about chores he'd used to hate himself. He could tell Dean picked up on it by the way he didn't say anything. He could also tell that Dean had been hoping for sex when he pulled on a clean pair of boxers and glanced at him just in time to see him visibly wilt. He held back a snort.

"So it's your turn, right?" Dean asked as Sam grabbed a T-shirt. He preferred to sleep in older ones, made soft by hundreds of washes, but Dean hadn't seen fit to bring any of those back to him. They had limited space, after all, and needed to travel light. "To do the laundry."

"You know it's not." Sam collapsed onto the bed, his side of it, with a groan. His feet were pounding. He hadn't noticed it so much in the shower, but now the pain was back.

He heard Dean moving around and a zipper being pulled back, and could only hope he was getting clothes of his own on. Then he grabbed Sam's foot all of a sudden, and Sam managed not to flinch this time.

"Your feet're swollen," Dean noted. "Guess that could be 'cause of the heat." He dropped Sam's foot back onto the thin, scratchy duvet. "Or are you just still not used to wearing shoes?"

"Nope," Sam grunted into his pillow. He was lying on his stomach.

"It's your calluses. They're working against you." Dean climbed into the bed, settling himself right up against Sam. Sam was grateful. He was very aware that Dean didn't sleep, and it never failed to touch him, that he laid with him almost every time he needed to rest. And as often as he craved just a few damn inches of personal space these days, he slept better when Dean was in the bed with him. "They might've helped when you were running around barefoot like a filthy hippie..." He tugged on Sam's hair, still damp. "But not so much now that you're wearing boots all day."

"I hate boots," Sam said, smothering a yawn as he rolled over onto his side. "And motels, and duffel bags, and cars, and Nevada." The light in the bathroom flicked off, leaving them in relative darkness. Harsh desert sunlight still came in under the curtains and around the air conditioner. "And you hate laundry and bathing and stopping for food and sleep. No wonder we make such a great couple."

Dean was silent, not denying that Sam's human needs annoyed him. Sam wouldn't have believed him if he'd tried, so that was okay. He really did want to go to sleep, but he didn't close his eyes just yet, staring straight ahead instead. At the saguaro-shaped lamp, clearly designed by somebody who'd never seen a saguaro - which made sense, they didn't even grow here. A bottle of ibuprofen. His newly-bought cell phone, which he kept forgetting to take with him. The notebook he had yet to open, barely remembering the ritual inside and afraid that it was impossible. And, on top of that, the box that a new charging cable had shipped in, a couple years ago. Small, sturdy, sealed. Held closed with masking tape.

When Dean had brought it to him, along with his other stuff, he'd been confused. It'd just looked like dirt and sticks when he'd opened it. It took him a second to realize that there might be some dirt mixed in, but it was mostly ash and pieces of bone.

"Is this - ?" He'd glanced up at Dean, from where he'd been sitting on his old bed in Bobby's house.

"I knew you buried him by the back door," Dean replied. He'd still had an armload of weapons - rifles, hatchets, machetes - balanced on one hip. Sam's weapons were the only thing he'd retrieved all of. "I got all of him. I think. Wasn't too hard, and I figured you wouldn't wanna leave him there." He jerked slightly, then frowned, obviously feeling the huge wave of emotion that'd just welled up out of Sam. "Shit. Sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you. Want me to take it back?"

Sam shook his head wordlessly, setting the tiny box on his lap. He'd held it there for a long time, and Dean had left him alone. He'd wanted to clutch it to his chest and curl up in a fetal position around it, maybe under the bed or in the closet, but he stopped himself. He'd been giving in to his own massive weakness way too much lately, and he couldn't afford another breakdown.

Staring at the box now, Sam still felt guilty. Both for the fact that he'd let him die - be murdered - in the first place, and because he hadn't even thought about him when he fled his cabin. He definitely hadn't thought about bringing him along. It was downright shameful that he'd had to be reminded by a fucking  _demon_ ; Vaughn deserved better than that.

"We really oughta get him an urn," the fucking demon commented softly. Sam sometimes wondered if he could read his mind in addition to his emotions. "Bet you could get some real nice pottery around here. Native American-ish."

"No," Sam replied, finally closing his eyes. "I don't have anywhere to put it."


	2. Chapter 2

_Subject: !IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ_

**_This message has been marked as urgent._ **

_Most of us know Sam Winchester or have read his books and website. He's been a huge help to our community for many years but what you may NOT know is that he has MURDERED Gordon Walker who was our friend and fellow hunter. Sam is currently on the run with a demon. The demon is a knight of hell who was captured by Gordon._

_We don't know if Sam is possessed or hipnotized or has just been won over by the demons but theres no doubt hes DANGEROUS. So is his knight who we think he "loves" which would be a SIN even if it wasnt a demon. It is important we BAND TOGETHER to take out this threat._

_There are pictures of Sam and the knights vessel attached underneath. If you see them KILL THEM but DO NOT do it alone. The demon is VERY strong and we should not underestemate Sam either he killed Gordon after all. There are consequences for killing a hunter and dont we have enough to deal with without worrying about these two!_

_Thank you for doing your part to help us all and PLEASE FORWARD this email to AT LEAST two people to spread the word!_

_\- E-mail recently circulated throughout the hunting community of the continental United States and Canada_

* * *

The steam rising out of the insulated paper cup smelled so good Sam had to work hard not to tear up. He took it from Dean when he offered it to him, mumbling out a thank-you. It was warm even through the cardboard sleeve that Dean had actually remembered to put on this time, which was more than welcome. The heat was finally working in the car (sort of), but his fingers were still stiff, courtesy of the frosty Idaho morning.

"I cannot  _believe_ ," Dean declared, slipping back into the driver's seat once he'd handed the coffee off, "how many flavors of coffee there are these days. And at a gas station. Seriously."

"This gas station's nicer than most." The community - which they were just passing through, because Dean thought it was too big - must be fairly well off. Sam took an experimental sip of coffee, then a larger one once he'd reassured himself that it wasn't going to burn a hole through his tongue. "Speaking of flavors, what is this?"

"French vanilla." Dean must be able to tell how much Sam liked it, because he looked extremely pleased with himself as he pulled away from the pump he'd just used to fill up the car. "And then they had all this stuff you could put in it, syrups and creamer and stuff, so I put in a splash of half-and-half and a couple squirts of caramel."

"I thought I tasted caramel," Sam said, nodding as he took another sip. It was like drinking a sundae, but not in a bad way. He couldn't get over how incredibly good at flavor combinations Dean was for somebody who couldn't taste any of them. He worked with what he could, now that he no longer had Sam's kitchen at his disposal.

There was comfortable silence for a while, not even music coming out of the speakers. There were no classic rock stations around here, at least not ones that were up to Dean's high standards, and the box of tapes (salvaged from Bobby's basement; most of them had originally belonged to Dean, according to him) had been knocked onto the floor during a particularly awkward lovemaking session yesterday afternoon - the Impala had not been designed with two men their size having sex in mind. Dean had yet to pick them all up.

Sam stared out the window, nursing his coffee. He'd forgotten the name of the town, despite the fact that they'd driven past a sign proclaiming it less than twenty minutes ago, but it looked like he'd been right about it being well off. The houses were nice. New or restored. They were separate from the stores, too. He frowned slightly; he hadn't spent a lot of time in places like this, because monsters didn't tend to settle in wealthy communities very often. Not monsters that caused problems, at least. He wondered why that was.

"So now that you've had your go-juice," Dean began, breaking into Sam's thoughts, "you awake enough to talk?"

Sam brought the frown back out. "Well, yeah," he said. "But I was before, too." He was only twenty-five, and he'd worked very hard, while living at the cabin, to wean himself off the gallons of coffee he'd had to drink to function in high school. He was tired without it, sure, but it wasn't a necessity.

Then again, he had been drinking a lot more lately. Because, ironically, he hadn't been sleeping as well as he had back when his leg had given him grief all night.

"Good to know." Dean nodded, eyes staying on the road. They probably didn't need to, between his reflexes and the light traffic, but Sam found it comforting anyway. He also appreciated the fact that Dean was probably only doing it to make him feel better. "Any preferences as to where we go next?"

"You mean you're not gonna just choose for us this time?" Sam felt a yawn coming on and hid it with another swallow of coffee. "Lemme think. I can't say 'somewhere cooler,' since the weather changed." And since Dean had finally given in and headed north. "I guess...someplace with parks? Or trails, at least. I'm getting tired of running on the side of the road."

"You're getting good at that," Dean commented. "You're staying out longer. And I haven't asked, but you haven't said anything, either - you still feel sick during? Or afterwards?" Sam shook his head. "Well, that's good."

"Yeah. It's..." Sam searched for something to say that wouldn't come out sounding weird. It'd sucked starting out, just like he'd been expecting, with what he remembered from when he'd started running outside of the standard training his dad put him through. It hurt, especially the day after; Dean had helped him out of bed on that first morning, even though Sam would have been perfectly fine with just lying there and wallowing in his agony for the rest of the day. He got nauseous. Bent over and dry-heaved on the shoulder of a deserted road, once. And, of course, he looked awful in shorts. He'd hated his legs even before a huge chunk had been taken out of one. It was a huge relief when the first freeze came and he could wear long pants without risking heatstroke.

It got better, though. Everything got better, just so long as you did it every day - or at least every day you weren't spending ten hours in a car. So now he didn't throw up anymore and he didn't walk like he was ninety the morning after he went running. Other things had changed, too. He was getting to know his left leg again as more than a burden and a source of pain, to trust his weight to it even unconsciously. His feet were planted more firmly, more equally, on the ground. He thought he might be sleeping better. He was definitely more patient with Dean, and it was getting easier and easier to hold onto the tranquility he felt when running after he was finished.

Between this and what he was doing with Dean, the weapons training and the sparring and the quizzing him on basic lore (which he did  _not_  need, having literally written the book on most of this stuff, but Dean seemed to get some kind of kick out of it, so...), he felt - stronger. More competent. Like, maybe, he could actually defend himself now, or hold his own on a hunt.  _Maybe_.

At the very least, he wasn't anxious about Dean having failed to retrieve his cane from his cabin anymore.

"I'm doing better," Sam finally decided on.

"Yeah, you're not limping nearly as much anymore," Dean agreed. "Which is just fantastic. And your stance is way better when you're shooting. Not to mention your aim. Just like I told you." He offered Sam a smile, which Sam returned. He'd been right ,and it didn't hurt to admit that every once in a while. Plus, it really had felt good, the first time Dean had shown him a target with most of its bullet holes clustered in the center. "You're feeling better about that now, right? About guns?"

"I really am," Sam admitted. "I'm feeling better about  _everything,_  really. Finally." He took another pull from the paper cup in his hands. It felt like it was about half-full. "It just takes a while to get back in the saddle."

"Nature of the beast," Dean agreed sagely. There was a beat of silence, then he said, "Once we get to this trail-place of yours, wherever that winds up being, we'll have to find the library."

"How come?" God, did he ever have mixed feelings about libraries.

"Well, 'cause you said the internet sucks at motels, and you can take your computer and get on it at a library, right?" When Sam nodded, he continued. "And I know they've got other computers at libraries. So, if you can teach me how to use one, I can help you out."

"With...what, exactly?" Sam asked, shaking his head and squinting at him. He really didn't use his laptop all that much. He was afraid to check his website or his e-mail, so mostly he just connected to motel wifi every couple days to take a look at the headlines coming out of the east. They were experiencing a crime wave over there, along with a lot of unseasonable storms. That was the civilian explanation, at least.

Sam was a little suspicious. Up until now, Dean hadn't shown much interest in his computer or the internet, which he'd always thought was strange for a guy who'd died in the eighties. Maybe he'd gotten all his freaking out over new technology out of his system back when he'd first crawled out of Hell. Maybe he'd never been told the World Wide Web was a third porn. That seemed more likely, Sam thought to himself as he raised his cup to his mouth again. He doubted Dean's handlers would have felt the need to teach a Knight of Hell how to Google smut. They hadn't even told him he could lay curses.

"Finding a hunt."

Sam's latest mouthful of coffee caught somewhere in the back of his throat, then hurt like hell going down when he forced himself to swallow again. A coughing fit hit him hard once his airway was clear, and he struggled not to spill what little was left in the paper cup as he sucked in air through a shrunken trachea, fighting the urge to double over. He would've set it down, but the car didn't have any cupholders and he knew it wouldn't be safe on the floor.

"I wouldn't've sprung it on you like that if I'd known you were gonna choke." Dean sounded concerned, and when Sam opened watering eyes, he realized he'd pulled over. They were idling right in front of someone's driveway. He'd probably been about to pound him on the back before realizing he wasn't actually dying, too, judging from the way he was just barely putting one hand back on the wheel. "Wrong pipe?"

"Yep," Sam managed croakily. It felt like most of what he'd just swallowed had wound up in his lungs, though he knew it hadn't actually.

"That sucks." Dean looked genuinely sympathetic. But Sam doubted he really remembered the pain of swallowing wrong while drinking, even if that'd been something he was tortured with in Hell - which was unlikely. "Thanks for not doing a spit-take all over the car, though."

"Right. Yeah. That was definitely first on my mind," Sam replied dryly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as Dean guided the car back onto the road, then reluctantly sipped at the remainder of his coffee. Ironically, drinking more made him hurt less.

He waited for Dean to say something else about hunting as they continued on through the town, but he didn't. There was silence in the car as the houses started to thin out around them, and Sam eventually realized Dean was waiting for more of an answer from him than just sputtering. So he cleared his throat and said, "I didn't choke 'cause you mentioned finding a hunt."

"Okay."

"I really didn't. It was just a coincidence."

"I believe you."

Sam didn't think he did, but it wasn't worth arguing about. "I mean, sure, it surprised me." He looked out the window rather than at Dean. The houses just kept getting further and further apart, so they must be on their way out of town. "I hadn't even thought about it. I guess I've just been focused on the training and not what it's for." He wondered where, exactly, Dean was going, considering they hadn't picked out a real destination yet. "Do you...think I'm ready?"

"Do you?" Dean returned.

Sam drained the dregs of his coffee, thick and sweet in a way that almost made him gag with caramel syrup, instead of answering right away. He didn't know. He sure as hell didn't feel ready for a hunt, even an easy one like a ghost or a very amateur witch. It'd been only a few weeks since the top of the hill in Nevada, a few months since he'd gotten his leg back. And before that, more than a few years since his last, bloody, disastrous, tragic hunt. In his head, he was still a researcher and a writer, only comfortable with monsters when they were in captivity. His body still seemed to reflect that, too. He knew he'd kept fit, and he knew he'd managed to put on some muscle - especially in his legs, seeing as his calves were finally looking more or less equal. But not much. He was still slimmer than Dean, whose muscles were entirely for show.

He just didn't look like a hunter, in his opinion. Or think like one. And he definitely didn't feel like one.

"No," Sam told Dean eventually. It came out sounding more like an admission than a statement. "I don't. I think I need more time, to practice."

"How much?" Dean asked.

"Huh?" Sam hadn't been expecting the question.

"How much more time d'you think you need?" Dean clarified, looking at Sam.

"Uh..." Just how the hell was he supposed to quantify something like that? Dean was still looking at him, and he was doing that not-blinking thing that seemed to happen way too often. It was clear he wanted an answer, so Sam scrambled to come up with something. "A few more months?" he tried, tentatively.

"Why not make it a solid year?" Dean asked. Sam was surprised, mostly because he didn't hear any sarcasm in his voice. Which didn't mean he wasn't feeling it, but his green eyes - blazing like emeralds under glass in the early-morning sunlight - were unreadable.

"That'd be okay," Sam risked. Dean nodded.

"You'd definitely be stronger by then," he agreed. He went back to looking at the road, which was still comforting. "And maybe you'd have gotten past some of the things that are eating you up right now, too." Sam remained silent, picking at the dead skin on his lower lip with his teeth. "But probably not. Those're things you carry with you for your whole life. Longer, if you're real unlucky." He was almost smiling. Sam wondered if he was talking about himself. "You won't feel like you're ready a year from now, or two, or ten. No amount of training'll change that."

Sam swallowed. "The way things are going, the kind of stuff we can hear about what's been happening back east, I doubt I have ten years," he said, rather that admitting that Dean was right.

"There's a thought," Dean agreed. "They didn't tell dumb grunts like me anything about the big picture, of course, but I know the plan allows for a whole lotta carnage. There might be a deadline on closing the Gates, otherwise everything could be overrun. All those hunters who want your head on a stick tortured to death, or maybe kept around. Lilith and Alastair both like pets. That what you want?"

"No!" Sam snapped. He was too pissed about Dean even asking if he'd be okay with that to seize on the fact that he'd mentioned two Lords, both of whom he probably knew far too personally.

"Didn't think so." Dean sighed through his nose, and Sam, glaring at him, saw his features softening. "None of us get to choose, or wait 'til we're ready to jump in. It just gets shoved straight at us."

"Not everyone," Sam pointed out, feeling stubborn. "Sometimes somebody'll pick up on everything without any kind of tragedy. They aren't motivated by revenge or having to save somebody, so they can take all the time they need to get outfitted and - "

"Yeah, I don't count those," Dean interrupted. "You know the morons who see one shifter shedding its skin and decide to play van Helsing don't last long. They don't take any of it seriously 'til somebody winds up dead, and it's usually them."

"Fine," Sam said. "Okay. Nobody gets to choose. I know I didn't the first time; I was brought up in the life. I wasn't ever normal. Neither were you." Defiance seeped involuntarily into his voice as he demanded, "So why can't I choose this time? Now that I've got the luxury?"

"'Cause you don't," Dean replied. "Neither of us do. Hell, Sam, you think I'm looking forward to this? I don't wanna go through all the trouble of finding and working a case just to hurt something. There're easier ways to do that."

Sam struggled to keep his face blank. Dean was a demon; that was a perfectly normal and healthy desire for something like him to have. He should just be grateful he'd been doing such a good job of keeping it in check so far.

"And I can tell you that I'm not crazy about the idea of you being in that kinda danger," Dean went on. "No matter how tough I know you are, or how well I know I can protect you. But you've got your heart set on doing the Trials and saving the world, and I know I'm not gonna get you to change your mind. So I can at least keep you from charging into the first one totally fresh. Which means hunting." He glanced at him, just out of the corner of his eye. "And the longer you stay outta the game, the easier it's gonna get to talk yourself out of it. To give up. And while  _I_ honestly don't give a shit about anything that isn't you or me - pretty sure we've established that -  _you_ do. You even care about people who think you belong in Hell, and if you don't do everything you can to save them and everybody else, you're gonna wind up hating yourself." His hands moved on the steering wheel, loosening and slipping down towards the bottom. "And I don't want that for you."

Sam looked at him, at the side of his face, and swallowed for the second time before looking away and letting his hair fall over his face. It hurt again, like when he'd nearly choked on the coffee earlier, but the pain was different. He was swallowing past a lump this time.

He peered out from under the dark fringes of his hair, at the empty paper cup that was still in his hand, the ridge of the bottom resting on his thigh. He thought about crushing it, but doing that seemed stupid and ineffective. Plus, he just wasn't all that angry anymore. Not even at Dean, for being so frequently and infuriatingly right about him and what would happen.

What he felt, mostly, was fear. It was frustrating because of its sheer familiarity, and it would've been humiliating to force it out through his tight throat. So, instead, he just stayed quiet and focused on it. He was afraid of getting hurt. Of ruining the gift Dean had given him before he'd even really gotten used to it again. Of letting someone innocent die. Of making the wrong call. Of screwing up. Of losing Dean, stupidly enough, even though he could probably count the ways to kill a Knight on one hand. Of proving everyone who hated him right, when they talked about how weak he was, how cowardly and useless, how much of a traitor. He'd never actually had anybody say that last one to his face, but he was sure they were saying it by now.

Maybe there was a little bit of self-pity mixed in there with the fear. And already some self-loathing, even though Dean had predicted that he wouldn't hate himself unless he didn't start hunting sometime soon.

"Sam." Dean's voice was so soft that he could barely hear it over the audible growl of the engine. He'd felt it; of course he had. That'd been Sam's intention. "I can promise -  _promise_ \- that this won't be anything like your last hunt. Or mine." He reached for Sam, who closed his eyes when Dean's callused hand closed over his own and squeezed gently. "There'll be no wendigos, no hellhounds, no isolated forests. We'll choose an easy one, we'll do our research, and then we'll work together and take it slow. Nothing'll go wrong."

"You  _can't_  promise that nothing'll go wrong," Sam protested quietly, shaking his head and keeping his eyes closed.

"Guess not," Dean admitted. "But I can promise I'll do my best to keep it from happening."

Sam opened his eyes now, turning his head in order to look out the window. They were still moving, and they'd left the town behind. There were no houses anymore; just flat landscape. The plains were filled with shards and furrows of shiny black rock, broken up by scrub brush and stunted little trees. He hadn't had any idea there were lava fields in Idaho, but he guessed it made sense. Yellowstone wasn't too far away, and it was just one big volcano.

"And I know that you're gonna do your best," Dean continued. Sam finally looked at him again, a laugh that really didn't match his current mood but that he couldn't hold back anyway bubbling out of him.

"You've got a lot of faith in me," he observed.

"You're the only thing I've got faith in," Dean replied. His voice had the flat ring of truth as he turned in order to make eye contact with Sam. Sam swallowed, holding it just long enough for it to start getting a little uncomfortable, at which point Dean asked, "We're having a chick-flick moment, aren't we?"

"Little bit," Sam agreed.

"Right." Eyes back on the road, Dean blinked, and they went black in the light that was now pouring in through the windshield. Sam just flipped his visor down and made a mental note to remind Dean to change them back if they ran into any traffic. Most people probably wouldn't notice, but they didn't need to risk causing an accident. "Let's try not to do that too much."

Sam snorted.

"Anyway," Dean said, forcefully, "I'm not gonna decide for you. Especially since you seemed so pissy about me always choosing where we go. This has gotta be your choice, 'cause you're gonna wind up resenting me no matter what I try and make you do."

Sam rested an elbow on the car door and cradled the side of his face in his hand. Was it comforting, creepy, or offensive how well Dean knew him, or at least thought he knew him? He needed more time to figure that out. And it probably didn't matter right now.

"Take as much time as you need to decide." The radio suddenly switched on, staticky music and voices pouring out, volume and content jumping around as the knobs twirled. Even though Dean still had both hands on the wheel. Sam narrowed his eyes at it where it was set into the dash; he was still getting used to the whole "telekinesis" thing. The whole "demonic powers" thing in general, really. "Make sure you're happy with it."

Sam sighed, straightening up and shifting his position. The empty coffee cup, which he was tired of holding, went between his knees. He'd toss it the next time he had Dean pull over at a rest stop to allow him a bathroom break. It'd be easier to just drop it on the floor, but Dean would throw a fit. Like Sam could tell he wanted to do when the radio got steadily fuzzier, all the stations blurring together as they moved out of range and the reception weakened, and he finally just shut it off with a grunt of frustration.

"Happy," Sam repeated softly.

Well, to be  _happy_ , he'd have to be not doing...this. Hunting, Trials, hiding both from demons and from people he'd at least considered allies, if not friends, several months ago. And he couldn't just choose to turn his back on it all, because he was wired with an overwhelming sense of duty and he knew he'd drive himself crazy with guilt if he hunkered down somewhere with Dean and played house. So he'd have to live in a world where closing the Gates of Hell wasn't a necessity, which would mean demons and monsters didn't exist, which was just the most stereotypical hunter wish ever. Not to mention that it was a lot to ask for, even if he hadn't suspected that living in that kind of world meant he wouldn't have ended up with Dean.

With things as they were, and not likely to change anytime soon, the best he could hope for was not to feel awful about himself. That meant completing the Trials as fast as possible, and he did agree with Dean: he couldn't go green into the first one. Hellhounds were nasty; he needed to get his sea legs back before he faced any.

"I want to hunt," Sam said finally. "Now. We can start looking as soon as we get to the next town."

Dean looked at him, and Sam couldn't tell if he was surprised by his decision or not. "Sure?"

"Yeah." Sam couldn't help thinking that it should've felt more momentous, saying that. After all, he was pretty much sealing his fate. He was returning to hunting after years on the bench, when he'd been at peace with that being something that would never happen. But it didn't feel like much at all.

Maybe that'd change when he actually laced up his boots and grabbed a gun for something other than target practice; maybe it'd be better if it didn't.

"Better start looking for a town with parks and trails and a library, then," Dean replied. "A small one. That's everything you wanted, right?"

"Yeah - you don't know of any places like that?" Sam asked.

"Not like I've got Idaho memorized," Dean pointed out, glancing slightly at him and arching a brow. His eyes were still black. "'Specially not anymore."

Sam huffed, then twisted in his seat, going up on his knees in order to lean over the back. He dug through the road maps, some loose and some bound in books, in a box on the floor of the back seat. Both he and Dean had cell phones, but they were way too cheap to have any kind of internet capability. And he couldn't use his laptop in the car, though Dean had asked him to before; explaining why he couldn't just get online anywhere had been a pain in the ass, maybe because he didn't understand it all that well himself, either. So that just left old-fashioned, impossible-to-refold maps.

It was nostalgic and painful at the same time, sitting in the passenger seat and reading off a road map. He'd started acting as his father's navigator as soon as he'd learned how to read, which had somehow also qualified him to sit in the front seat. Sam grabbed a map of Idaho as a whole and a booklet that went into more detail on some of its cities with the hand that didn't have an empty cup in it, then turned again and dropped back onto the leather, one leg folded comfortably beneath him.

He hadn't missed how Dean didn't react much to his decision to go ahead and start looking for a hunt right now, just like he hadn't felt much when he'd made that decision. Either it hadn't surprised him or he just didn't want to make a big deal out of it. That did seem like something he'd do, try and keep things as normal as possible while Sam made the transition back into a lifestyle he'd been forced out of while he was still a teenager, and Sam was grateful even if Dean wasn't doing it consciously. Leaving hunting had been so huge and awful and traumatic for him that it just felt good for the return to be quiet. For only him and Dean to know about it and neither of them to care very much. He could do his part, too.

Sam spread the maps out on his thighs, trying not to take up too much of Dean's driving space as they spilled over onto his side of the car, and spent some time studying the little dots along the red and black lines of the roads that indicated small towns. The sun rose a few degrees in the sky, so they weren't driving into it anymore. Sam just barely heard Dean's eyes switch back to human colors over the admittedly-soothing purr of the engine, and even then only because he'd been straining his ears to try and catch it.

He opened the booklet after a few minutes. With the sun coming up, he was finally starting to feel uncomfortably warm, so he shrugged out of his jacket. It was a Carhartt - bulky and, because it was brand-new, stiff. It took some clever acrobatics, considering everything else he was juggling, and he was pretty sure Dean intervened telekinetically at some point to help keep him from dumping everything onto the floor. At any rate, he got settled again and began flipping through the booklet, glancing back and forth between it and the bigger map.

"Okay," he announced eventually. "I think I've found a place, but it's back in the other direction..."

* * *

"Got your cell phone?"

"Uh huh."

"Wallet?"

"Yep."

"Water?"

"I'm not going far. I'll rehydrate when I get back to the room."

"You sure?" He wasn't even looking at him, but Sam could tell that Dean was frowning. "You need a crazy amount of water to keep all your squishy parts...y'know, squishy."

"I'm aware. But if I drink too much before or while I'm running, everything'll get too squishy."

"You'll puke?"

"I'll puke."

"I am  _so_ glad I haven't seen you do that yet."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Sam tugged the loops of his running shoes' laces, making sure they were tight, then straightened up and pushed himself off the bed. The shoes had rubbed horrible blisters onto his feet the first few times he'd worn them, refusing to yield, but now they were broken in. They were more comfortable than his boots. Still not as comfortable as wearing nothing at all, but he couldn't run unpaved roads in bare feet.

"All right," he announced. "I think I'm ready to go." He gave Dean, sitting at their room's small table with his arms folded over his chest, a little wave. "See you later. Have fun at the library."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Right." He twisted at the waist to reach for Sam's laptop, already strapped into its padded case. "Pretty sure that old bag at the front desk is gonna exorcise me if I try and use the printer again. Told me yesterday I'm lucky she isn't making me pay for all the paper I've used so far."

"Okay, so, one, I don't think she'll be there today. And two, just...don't use the printer, then." Privately, Sam had been wondering why Dean kept on handing him paper copies of online articles. He'd shied away from all of them so far, recognizing the weird stuff they talked about as the work of something he either wasn't comfortable hunting yet or that wasn't even their kind of monster, so they just went straight into the nearest recycling bin. "You're using my laptop, so keep the articles you find open in another tab or bookmark them or something. Then show me when I get there."

"Yeah, okay." Dean paused. "I don't remember how to do either of those things."

Sam bit back a sigh of irritation, even though doing that was basically useless: Dean would be able to feel that he was annoyed with him. (Although his expression didn't change.) They'd been here, in the town Sam had chosen, for a couple of days. It was called Bellevue, and a large portion of the first of those days had been taken up by a crash course in computers for Dean. Both Sam's laptop and the dinosaurs at the library, because they were definitely different. He'd never taught somebody how to use a computer before, especially someone who had something like less than zero experience with them, and it'd forced him to realize that he was kind of an awful teacher. In this area, at least. He was impatient, he couldn't answer a lot of Dean's questions, and a lot of the stuff Dean found most confusing, Sam just took for granted. Like file names and hyperlinks and search terms. So it really wasn't Dean's fault that he wasn't computer-literate yet.

"Okay," Sam said patiently, crossing the room. He grabbed the other chair at the table and dragged it over next to Dean's, dropping into it as he unzipped the laptop case. He pulled the Velcro straps free and lifted the computer out, flipping the screen up and setting it on the table. "I'll give you a refresher real quick."

"You don't have to," Dean said quickly. "I'm sure I can figure it out when I get there. You should go before it starts warming up outside."

"It's fine. It's not a big deal," Sam replied, tracing swirls on the track pad with his index finger to wake the computer up. He didn't say it, but he didn't want Dean messing around aimlessly on his laptop. He might accidentally download a virus or a toolbar or something. "This won't take too long."

He logged into the account he'd set up for Dean. The desktop, with its generic background image, was pretty bare. He hadn't set many icons out for him, wanting to keep things as simple as possible. Dean hadn't seemed to mind. Sam double-clicked on Chrome, newly installed as of about eight months ago, and then made a conscious effort to keep himself from impatiently tapping his fingers on the tabletop. The wifi at this motel  _sucked_. It was even worse than dialup, which Sam had suffered through for years, having been a teenager in the late nineties. That was the main reason they were spending so much time at the library.

The Google homepage finally came up, much to Sam's relief. "So, to open a new tab, you hit this little square over here. The one with the plus sign on it." He demonstrated. "To open something in a new tab, right-click on the link, then hit 'open in new tab' when the menu comes up. Or hold the 'control' button - on the keyboard, right here - " He pointed. " - before you click. That works, too." He moved his cursor. "To bookmark something ,go ahead and hit this star up here while you're on the page. That'll put it in this list here, so you'll be able to go back and find it anytime you want. Even if you close the tab." He glanced at Dean, who was staring intently at the screen. "Got it?"

"...yyyes."

"If you don't understand, just call me. I might be able to help over the phone." Probably not; he was never going to land a job in tech support. He also wasn't sure whether or not he'd have cell service. "Otherwise, just wait. I'll be at the library in an hour or two."

"Right." Dean softly closed the laptop, then put it back in the case and started strapping it in again. He was gentler with it than Sam was. "Guess I'll see you then. Have a good run."

"Thanks," Sam told him, and pushed himself up out of the chair. He headed for the door, opened it, and stepped out.

It was cold out here. Below freezing, probably, seeing as everything was covered in a thick layer of fluffy-looking white frost. The sun had yet to clear the horizon, but its light was slowly changing the sky from a deep violet to pink. Sam had to close his eyes for a second to dam up the tears that the harsh air had triggered, and the first weak rays of dawn were stamped in negative on the undersides of his lids. He was glad he'd opted to pull a hoodie on over his usual T-shirt.

It was fall, though, not winter. The temperature was already rising, so he didn't have to worry about getting frostbite or burning his lungs. But for now it was still chilly, so he flipped his hood up, over his ears and the high ponytail he'd pulled most of his hair into, and shoved his hands into his front pocket.

Bellevue was rural. There weren't that many parks - not ones meant for running in, at least - but there were plenty of trails. Or maybe poorly-maintained back roads Sam used as trails, but whatever. It got him away from cars and gave him somewhere to run. That was where he was heading now. It wasn't at all far from where he and Dean were staying.

He stopped where asphalt transitioned to gravel, and then dirt. A faded sign full of pellet gun holes stated that motorized vehicles were strictly prohibited, and a much newer one that'd been screwed to the pole directly underneath it warned of rough road ahead. Sam kept his eyes on them so his head would stay steady as he shifted into a deep lunge, wincing at the burn in his thighs and hamstrings. He held it for about a minute, then switched legs. He went through a few more stretches once he was finished with that. He'd had his share of cramps and pulled muscles when he was younger, until one of the soccer coaches he'd had in middle school had finally hammered home the connection between preparing before he ran and not wanting to die afterwards.

Sam could've stretched back at the motel. There was plenty of room, and it was a lot warmer inside, but he knew he looked stupid doing this. Dean probably wouldn't make fun of him, but Sam didn't want to force him to struggle with the powerful temptation.

Once he was feeling reasonably limber, his body warm, loose, and ready to move under his sweats, he took off. The air burned slightly in his airways, and his breath puffed out white in front of him, but it got harder and harder to see as the day got steadily warmer. His heartbeat, his breathing, and the rasp and crunch of his soles on the uneven ground was loud in his ears. Maybe it would've been nice to listen to music. But he never had before, and he didn't have anything he could use for it. Just like his twenty-dollar pay-as-you-go cellphone couldn't go on the internet, it couldn't play music, and he wasn't about to dig into his very meager funds for an iPod. Maybe it was for the best, seeing as how he wasn't sure headphones or earbuds would even stay put. After all, it wasn't like Sam jogged. He  _ran_.

He was built for distance running. His math teacher at the last high school he'd attended, who'd doubled as the track coach, had told him that, and it still rang true. Long-legged and leanly muscled, he felt awkward and gangly for the first couple minutes or so. But once he found his rhythm and his heart rate evened out, it felt like he could keep going forever.

He'd just hit that point in this morning's run. Trees blurred by on either side of him, the frost on their colorful leaves glittering as the rising sun burned it off. His stride was smooth. It felt less like his feet were hitting the ground and more like the ground was pushing them up. He might as well have been flying.

Everything was beautiful, and everything was loud and quiet at the same time. And then, of course, there was the best part: when his body was moving this fast, almost every muscle group working, his mind more or less ground to a halt. There was no fear, no anxiety, no guilt. He didn't stress about his leg. It became just another part of his body, and worked exactly as it was supposed to. He never limped when he was running.

When Sam first started doing this again, Dean showed no interest in going with him. He still didn't. It was a relief - he wanted to do almost everything else with Sam, so he'd been dreading telling him he'd rather not have him along. Not to mention unsure how, exactly, he was going to do that. Maybe the idea of running just didn't appeal to Dean, seeing as how he could literally run forever with no problem. Maybe he could sense that Sam needed some time alone, though he didn't think his empathy worked like that. The reason didn't really matter. He'd probably be talking if he were here, since exertion didn't affect his breathing. Sam loved him, he'd told him that plenty of times, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the peace that came when he was running by himself.

It could only last for so long, though. He got to revel in the feeling of perfect calm for a good while, then other things started creeping in. The fatigue in his legs, the aching in his chest, the sweat between his skin and his clothes. He was starting to get really thirsty, too, though he stood by his decision not to bring any water along.

Sam kept going for a while, until all the discomforts stopped being kind of pleasant and just got annoying. When that happened, he slowed to a jog, then a trot, then a walk. He was breathing hard and he was tired, but not so much that he had to sit down or bend over with his hands on his knees. Like he'd told Dean in the car, he didn't get sick anymore, either (unless he drank too much water), and he was very proud of that. Probably too proud, but he hadn't had a lot of wins lately, so he was gonna cut himself a break on this one.

The path he'd followed was a loop, taking him out away from town and then bringing him back, as long as he stayed on it and didn't follow any of the smaller ones that branched off it and led deeper into the country. He might've turned onto one of those and started running again once he'd recovered, but he knew both that he shouldn't push himself too hard and that Dean was waiting for him. So he walked the remaining length of the trail, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his hoodie as he went as soon as his breathing had gotten a little slower. It'd been just under an hour, Sam saw when he checked it, and he didn't have any missed calls from Dean, either. That was encouraging. Hopefully it meant that he hadn't run into any problems with the laptop and not that he'd smashed it in a fit of frustration.

Sam put his phone away as he approached Bellevue. He was feeling better now, and he was once again tempted to start running again. He'd just grab a quick shower back at the motel and then head to the library, though. He'd probably had enough of a workout for today. The run, and the cold air, had definitely woken him up.

That alertness would fade once he was in the hot, stuffy little library, though. Reading through articles from all over the country - or the western section, at least - that were more or less identical. It might be a good idea to have some caffeine in his system. The trail he was on came out in the parking lot of a gas station; he was almost to it. He could buy a coffee there. Maybe put some -

A loud burst of laughter suddenly derailed Sam's thoughts. He blinked, realizing he was closer to the parking lot than he'd realized. He could see cars through the trees that separated him from it, arranged in a haphazard circle in blatant violation of the yellow-painted spaces. There were people, too, sitting on the hoods or standing in the middle of the circle. Of course he couldn't make out their faces, but he could see a lot of flannel and denim, and from their voices - which were coming to him loud and clear - he could tell they were all men.

Lumber guys, maybe. Or oil field workers. Was there even any oil around here? Probably. It seemed like the west was covered in wells and rigs.

"Hoo, boy," one of them said as the laughter wound down, and an involuntary image of him wiping an exaggerated tear from the corner of his eye popped into Sam's mind. "That was a good one...seriously, though." A pause. "Would any you've guessed he swung that way?"

"Well, I never met him in person." Somebody else spoke up. "Never saw a reason to. But, I mean, I heard he was kinda quiet, real into books, like to keep that place of his clean. And, far as I know, never had any girls up there, neither, 'sides that ginger dyke. All that points to this sorta thing, don't it? More or less?"

There was a low murmur of agreement, and Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. It was pretty obvious what they were discussing. It also wasn't any of his business, though, and it wasn't like homophobia was new or shocking to him. He did feel bad for their friend, or whatever he was to them. Hopefully neither he nor the "ginger dyke" knew they were being talked about behind their backs. Or maybe it'd be better if they did.

"Yeah, only girl up there was him - heard all about how long he kept his hair."

Despite himself, Sam felt heat rising in cheeks that the morning air had numbed, and flipped his hood up to cover his own hair. Just a precaution.

"That ain't strictly true," the first speaker pointed out. "He had lots of girls up there. Sort-of girls."

"Yeah, I always figured he was using those for stress relief," a third man commented. "I mean, I would've. If I were in his position."

"I used to thank Jesus every day I wasn't." And that was a fourth one. Sam would be able to see them all soon. He was on a bend in the path now that would lead him out from behind the trees. "I mean, only one leg. God _damn_."

Phantom pain ticked mechanically up Sam's left calf, from his heel to the back of his knee.

"He ain't  _missing_ a leg," one of them corrected. "He just can't use it."

"Last I saw him, he just had a bad limp."

"Oh, yeah. That was it."

Sam stumbled, having to slap a hand against a tree in order to keep himself from twisting an ankle. He swallowed, and the sides of his throat - suddenly dry as sandpaper - rasped painfully against each other.

They couldn't be talking about him. It was impossible. It had to be a coincidence. His palm stung as he forced himself to keep walking forward, but he didn't see any blood or scrapes when he glanced down at it.

He'd just stepped out into the parking lot when one of the men, maybe the second one he'd heard talk, commented, "Wonder if that's what made the demon take such a shine to him in the first place. In my experience, they like that kinda thing. Y'know, the wounded, cripples. Stuff that's...wrong."

It felt like someone had broken a water balloon of near-freezing water over Sam's scalp, allowing it to wash down over his whole body. There was a hollow, weightless clenching in his stomach and at his tailbone. In the small of his back, his kidneys hurt, almost like he'd been kicked in them. He blurrily wondered if so much adrenaline was being dumped into his bloodstream that the glands were cramping.

_Oh, god._

So many occupations wore denim and flannel. Lumberjack. Roughneck. And hunter, which he hadn't even considered. Hadn't allowed himself to.

"Way I heard it,  _he_ took a shine to  _it_." Their conversation was still going. "Had to've been what happened. Thing couldn't've been trussed up tighter if it'd been in a straitjacket, when Gordon dropped it off."

Sam didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until he began to feel dizzy, and had to manually suck in air. At least he'd managed to keep walking, and his pace had stayed nearly normal.

"Gordon! Shit. What a waste."

"Yeah. Tell me about it. Gotta find the backstabbing little fruit and his black-eyed bitch and gut 'em both before anybody else goes his way. Rest in peace."

There was a faint trickling noise, and Sam imagined half a finger or so of whiskey being poured out onto the asphalt. Then a "Hey."

It was guarded, and louder than the rest of their conversation had been, but Sam barely picked up on that. He was just focused on getting out of here without drawing attention to himself, in the only direction left to him. He couldn't dart back onto the trail. They'd notice.

"Hey. Gray hoodie."

Sam came to a stop, both stiff and faintly trembling all at once, because he knew that that that was him, as much as he didn't want it to be. Boots scuffed over the asphalt towards him, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't turn to face them. At least one of them had seen him before; they'd recognize him. He couldn't run, because they might shoot him. He couldn't fight. He never carried any kind of weapon with him when he ran - it'd never occurred to him, and Dean had never suggested it, either. At six-four, he was immune to most of the dangers that befell lone joggers.

He remembered someone telling him, once, that angels could hear your prayers, as long as you knew their name. He wondered if it'd summon Dean if he screamed curses at him inside his head.

"Whatcha up to, Ike?" someone in the pack of hunters called. The boots stopped.

"Winchester's a tall son of a bitch, ain't he?" replied the one who'd peeled off from the herd. "And I thought I saw long hair."

A snort. "You dumbass. That's not him - you see a limp?" Sam reflexively tensed the muscles of his left leg. "Leave that kid alone and get back over here. I gotta clear out soon and we still haven't heard just what it is you've been up to."

There was a huff, a sound of annoyance meant to cover up the embarrassment Ike was probably feeling. To Sam, he muttered, "Sorry - thought you were somebody I knew." He heard him turn around and prepared to take a step himself, but then Ike tossed a parting shot over his shoulder: "And cut your goddamn hair, son. For Chrissakes."

He returned to the other hunters. Sam left the parking lot on legs he could barely feel, sure his face (which was also numb, again, and this time not from the nip that remained in the air) was blank with shock. The thought of coffee entered his mind again as another gout of laughter erupted from behind him, but he didn't even glance at the small building beyond the pumps he was now passing. He didn't want to, couldn't, stay here any longer than he absolutely had to.

He made it out of the parking lot and onto the narrow road. Walking on the shoulder, gravel made soft by a layer of fallen leaves, he turned a corner and put another thick stand of trees between himself and the hunters. Then he started running again. Not at the steady lope he'd been moving at earlier - this was a flat-out sprint. He made it ten steps before his leg failed him.

The muscles locked up and refused to listen to him, just like they'd used to back when large pieces of them had been missing and they'd been webbed with scar tissue. They spasmed, all the strength leaching out of them and everything they were connected to. So when Sam's full weight came down on it, because that was just how running worked, it folded like a soggy toothpick. His ankle rolled and his knee tried to bend in a direction he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to, and he went down hard. His hands flew out, but it didn't do him a lot of good. The leaves and gravel were slick with melted frost, so his hands just skidded out from under him, and tore the hell out of his palms in the process. Then his face smacked into the ground. Shortly followed by the rest of him. There was a loud  _crack_ ; he knew being able to hear something breaking wasn't good.

Sam's teeth sank into his tongue and the hot taste of copper flooded his mouth, but not because he'd fallen. Biting his tongue kept him from crying out. He couldn't make any noise that the hunters back in the parking lot might hear, because of course they'd come, and then they'd see his face, and they'd realize who he was, and then...he really didn't want to think about it too hard, because he was sure his imagination could provide him with dozens of worst-case scenarios about what they might do to him. He could feel gravel embedded in his chin and cheekbone, and the entire left side of his face was hot and tight, already swelling. If he wasn't bleeding yet, he would be soon, but he didn't think any of it was enough to make him totally unrecognizable. Not to people who'd met him in person before.

He pushed himself up with a low groan. He wasn't hurting too bad yet; the adrenaline that walking past the hunters had dumped into his system was coming in handy now. His arms shook as he dragged himself over to the trees and bushes lining the road and sat down, breathing hard and half-hiding himself while he assessed the damage. He knew he didn't blend in very well; his hoodie was gray, his pants were navy blue, and his running shoes were predominantly white, all of which clashed with the yellow, red, and brown of the leaves and twigs. But the instinct to take shelter was too strong to ignore.

Sam looked down at his hands very first, grimacing. The heels had taken the brunt of his impact. They were raw, the first few layers of skin having been peeled off; what remained was hot, wet, and tender, a dark pink stippled with red dots of blood. It was already purpling up with deep bruises in some places, and was brown and black with dirt in others. Gravel, mostly tiny pieces, was embedded in the meat. The idea of digging them out made his stomach turn over.

His face throbbed. The pain went deep into his skull, taking root as a headache. He could've run his fingertips - mostly undamaged - over it and felt what was wrong, but he didn't want to make it worst, and he wasn't sure what good knowing would do him, anyway.

His ribs and his sternum ached from where his chest had hit the ground, but nothing was broken. He knew what that felt like, and this wasn't it. There was a ticklish kind of pain in his lungs, and he couldn't suck in too deep a breath without feeling the urge to cough, but that was just from having the wind knocked out of him.

There was a sharp pain in both his kneecaps (at least those hadn't gotten torn up, courtesy of his pants). His hips kinda hurt, and weirdly enough, his balls did a little, too, even though he was pretty sure those hadn't hit the ground. And there were a hundred other different aches and pains and scrapes and bruises scattered all over his entire body - and he still had no idea what that crack had been - but the worst hurt by far was his left leg.

His knee had a sick, pinching pain inside it, and his ankle was sore, but what was between them made both pale in comparison. It felt like someone had taken a giant melon baller and scraped off all the flesh between the back of his knee and his Achilles tendon, the serrated edge grating against the bone the whole way down. It felt like someone had held the dull, rusty blades of an outdated lawnmower to his calf. It felt like...it felt like...

It felt like it had right after the wendigo had first swiped its claws across it.

Sam licked his lips, tasting blood and grit and earth. He did have to feel this one out, make sure there was nothing actually wrong. Lowering a hand to his left calf, he accidentally triggered another, unwelcome spurt of adrenaline when he felt an empty pant leg hanging off his shin where rounded muscle should have been. He felt dizzy, his system overwhelmed by the hormone, and as he swayed slightly where he was sitting, he forced himself to take a few breaths as deep as he could manage before he could pass out or throw up. His calf hadn't just fallen off, that was ridiculous. And sure enough, when he grabbed at his leg - and hissed at the fresh pain the touch of his fingers sent through him - it was still whole. Just cramping so hard that it'd shrunk down a third or fourth of its normal size. His foot was pulled down, into something almost like some sort of ballet position, and he couldn't fully straighten his knee.

His eyes stung suddenly. Not from the pain, even though it was excruciating (and familiar). He swiped the back of one bloody, dirty hand across his eyes like a five-year-old, trying to push the memories that'd just flooded involuntarily into his mind back down where they belonged. Memories of mornings at the cabin after overdoing it the previous day, of waking up from nightmares that somehow set off his leg, of trying to do too much or move too fast and being instantly punished for it.

"Dammit," Sam whispered. "Dammit, dammit, dammit..." This hadn't been supposed to happen ever again, but it wasn't worth crying about. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, either. He was still too close to the hunters. One of them could drive by at any second. He had to get to Dean, and then they had to leave as fast as they could, because neither of them were safe here.

Panting, he touched his leg again, letting his eyes fall closed. There was no way he could walk on this. Cramps this awful could last for upwards of an hour back when he'd still been living at the cabin, and usually nothing - not a hot shower, not rubbing, not medication - could get it to release. Now that the muscles were whole and healthy, it might last even longer. Never mind that the fact the muscles were whole and healthy should've meant that this wasn't even a problem.

He needed to call Dean to come and get him. Sam didn't want him anywhere near the hunters, who probably wouldn't recognize him but still might be able to somehow tell what he was, but he didn't have any choice. He fumbled into the pocket of his hoodie with his left hand, which was already starting to stiffen up. When he touched his phone, he groaned loudly.  _Just my_ fucking  _luck_.

He pulled his cell phone, all the separate pieces of it, at least, out of his pocket, letting it fall to the ground next to him so he could open his eyes and stare down at it. That was what that loud cracking sound had been. He almost would've rather had it be a bone.

Sam sucked in a breath. To hunt - to do the Trials and save those assholes back in the parking lot whether they wanted him to or not - he could not depend on Dean all the time. Tempting as it might be. He had to be prepared to solve his own problems, and he needed to have control over his body.

He couldn't sit here for much longer, either. The cold dampness of the leaves and mud he was sitting on was seeping up through his pants and into his boxers; his ass was going numb.

So he scooped what was left of his cell phone back up into his pocket, because he couldn't just leave it where it was. Hitting the ground had knocked the hood off his head, so he went ahead and pulled it back up, because it made him feel better. Then he reached up, grabbed the nearest branch that seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight, and hauled himself upright with a gasp of pain.

He wobbled, still unsteady with adrenaline. His right leg wasn't used to doing most of the work anymore, either. He squeezed the branch he was holding, letting the rough bark dig into his scrapes. The pain gave him clarity and let him focus on something besides his leg. He'd been holding it up in the air, but now he let the toe of his shoe rest against the soft ground, which sent an agonizing quiver through his hardened muscles. Then he forced his sole entirely flat. Flexing like that undid whatever was holding his calf tight, and everything spontaneously released.

Sam gasped, and only the fact that his hand was still on the branch kept him from collapsing again. He'd forgotten how good a sudden absence of pain could feel. Better than an orgasm, in some ways.

He pushed off the tree and started walking. His heart was still galloping in his chest, but he'd wasted enough time already, and he was hurting more by the second. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hunched his shoulders, focusing on staying off the ground. It was hard because of how off-balance he was. Even though his left leg wasn't cramping anymore, it was weak as hell and the knee and ankle still hurt, and he had to limp heavily. He could only hope Ike didn't drive past him. If he saw how he was walking now, he might decide he wanted another conversation. A more in-depth one, this time.

Thinking about him had Sam remembering what he and the other hunters had been saying as he walked by, even though he didn't want to. They'd been talking about him, he couldn't deny that. And his sexuality. Their opinion of that had been very clear. He remembered his last conversation with Gordon (while carefully skirting around how it'd ended), what it'd called him and how he'd said it didn't matter to him, because being a fag didn't have any bearing on a person's ability to hunt. Not on its own, at least. Sam smirked, which made his face hurt. He'd never thought he'd miss Gordon.

They'd mentioned somebody else, too, a friend of his. A "ginger dyke." That would have to be Charlie. Who...hell. He hadn't thought about her in months. He supposed he'd just been too busy, even though he couldn't have survived at the cabin without her and Garth bringing him supplies once a month or so.

He hadn't thought about Garth, either. Or Ellen, despite the fact that she'd taken him in after what'd happened with the wendigo and acted as his nurse and therapist and almost his mother. He'd lived under the same roof as Jo, and Ash, too, when he'd showed up, and not a single one of them had crossed Sam's mind since he and Dean had taken off. A stab of guilt hit him low in the gut. He would've run a hand through his hair, if he hadn't known it would hurt. Both because it was in a ponytail and because of the state that his hands were in.

They had to have heard the same version of events that everybody else had, since he hadn't even tried to give them his own. Were they worried about him? Did they suspect he might be dead? Could they believe what had been said about him? Were they wondering what he'd been thinking?

Did they hate him?

Sam swallowed. His mouth still tasted like blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. He wouldn't think any of them could hate him, but it wasn't like he'd made all that much of an effort to be close to them in recent years. Charlie and Garth usually only hung around long enough to unload his supplies and make the bare minimum of small talk, because they knew he wouldn't tolerate them staying any longer than that. The last time he'd called Ellen, she'd assumed he wanted something, and she'd been right. He only communicated with Ash via short, impersonal e-mails. And he couldn't even remember when he'd last spoken to Jo.

He'd withdrawn up there, in Bobby's cabin. Resented visits from hunters and people he'd used to consider family alike. The only ones he'd interacted with on a daily basis were the monsters, and he hadn't even taken good care of them, as proven by Vaughn. And he still missed all that, remembered it as the best part of his life. He probably deserved the wounds covering his body right now.

Sam closed his eyes, but only briefly, since he didn't need to trip over something and go down again. He should call them, all of them - just as soon as he got a new phone, he thought dryly to himself as the remains of his old one scraped against his knuckles. After everything they'd done for him, they at least deserved an explanation and an assurance that he was all right. Even if they did hate him.

He turned down the street that led to the library. It was a small building, and looked like it'd been a boxy little house before being converted into a library. The front yard had been paved to make a minuscule parking lot, but because it was a weekday morning in a rural town, there was only one car in it. The tiny Jetta that belonged to one of the two librarians - the younger one, the one Dean didn't have beef with but whom unfortunately dressed like she wanted to single-handedly enforce at least three different stereotypes at once. Hopefully, she and Dean would be the only ones inside. Sam knew he looked like roadkill and would rather not frighten any small children.

Normally, he would've gone back to the hotel first. Taken a shower, gotten dressed. But that would take time he didn't have, and the idea of hot water hitting his scrapes had him shuddering.

He pulled open the door and stepped inside. Almost immediately, there was a startled gasp from the front desk, which was squashed into a corner right next to the door. Sam glanced over to see the librarian (blonde, but with very obvious brunette roots; early twenties; lensless glasses; cable-knit sweater) covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.

"Oh, my god," she blurted, lowering her hands slightly and balling them into fists. "Did - did you get hit? What happened? Do you need me to call an ambulance?" One hand wavered towards the phone, a clunky corded model.

"No - no." Sam shook his head. His neck was stiff. "I just took a bad spill. Tripped over my own feet." He tried to smile, but  _shit_ , it hurt. "Doubt I need an ambulance; nothing's broken. I just need to find my..." He trailed off, nervous about using the word "boyfriend," aware of the area of the country he was in.

"He's over there." The librarian pointed. She and the older lady switched off day to day, and Sam and Dean had been here for a few days, so she knew them. She knew they were together, even if she might not know in what way, and she knew Sam was a runner. She was also under the impression that they were investigative reporters. "Behind the Fiction shelf. Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

The small space was almost suffocatingly hot, and reeked of acid-based paper. It was a shock after coming in from the relative chill of the morning outside, and made Sam's fingers feel swollen and stiff as he folded his hood back. His shoes, wet from the leaves and mud, squeaked on the yellowing linoleum as he walked deeper into the library and rounded the lone bookshelf that housed the Fiction section. Dean was there, sitting at his usual round table, near the bank of three outdated computers and the printer. Sam had been kind of wondering why Dean hadn't come charging up as soon as he came in. His hearing was definitely good enough to alert him. He got his answer, though, when he saw that Dean was wearing his headphones, the cord plugged into the laptop and the band adjusted to fit his smaller head.

As Sam approached, Dean casually lifted his eyes from the screen to him. Then he instantly leaped to his feet, swearing - without bothering to take off or unplug the headphones. Sam yelped a little as the rubberized cord jerked taut and nearly yanked the laptop off the table. The headphones noisily clattered against the keyboard as Dean disappeared out from under them a fraction of a second later. Then he was right in front of Sam, studying him frantically and growling questions under his breath.

"Who did this to you? Where all are you hurt? Did anything bite you?"

"Nobody did anything to me, it's just road rash - and  _don't_ teleport in public." Dean had been going to touch his face, so Sam grabbed his wrists with his flayed hands, then glanced towards the librarian. She'd stood up at her desk and was peering worriedly over the shelves towards them. "We've gotta leave. Right now."

"Whatever it is, you look like you fell in a meat grinder," Dean replied, tugging his wrists free of Sam's hands and apparently ignoring everything else he'd said. "Lemme heal you."

"Not here," Sam said tensely. Another glance at the librarian. "Not 'til we're in another town - or, even better, another state. I remember it drains you and I'd feel better if you were at full power."

Dean eyed him, then shook his head. "Fixing scrapes and bruises wouldn't put me out too much," he pointed out. "Not like when I did your leg." He took a step back, then lowered himself into his chair. Sam stayed where he was, impatient and frustrated. "What's got you so spooked?"

"There are hunters in town." Sam tried not to spit it out. But he felt awful and he was afraid, and it seemed like Dean wasn't taking this seriously. "And they were talking about us."

Dean straightened, finally looking troubled. "What the hell're they doing here? There's nothing to hunt. I'd know if there was."

"I don't know, just - talking." Sam pulled the rubber band out of his hair, wincing when doing that pulled on several (likely bruised) areas of his scalp. "They're at the gas station. They might be gone by now, I don't know. They were standing around and drinking, maybe four or five of them. I got the feeling they were just passing through the area and happened to meet up."

"The gas station's a good distance from here," Dean said, nodding. "Did they see you?"

"Yeah, but they didn't recognize me," Sam replied. "'Cause I wasn't limping."

"How come you didn't call me?" Dean asked. "Clearly, you were freaking out about this the whole way over here. And I'm not saying it's not a problem," he added hastily, holding up a hand. Maybe in response to Sam's increasing annoyance. "But we could've worked out a plan."

Sam huffed out a laugh, then pulled a few pieces of his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed a few onto the table in front of Dean. It was a good thing they were alone in the library. Between the two of them, they were sure making a lot of noise.

"I would've," he replied. "But I landed on my phone."

"Hell, Sam." Dean picked up what'd once been the charging port and its surrounding case, then dropped it again. "I don't wanna see the bruise this must've left on you. We're gonna have to get you a new one of these ASAP." He looked up at him. "So...what happened, exactly? I'm assuming they didn't road-haul you."

"No." Sam played with the rubber band, which he was still holding. He should really stop, considering how much it was making the scrapes on his hand hurt. "I..." He sighed, and barely stopped himself from rubbing a sore hand over his equally-damaged face. "It's stupid. But as soon as I was away from them, I started running again, then I..." His left leg trembled slightly inside his pants, and his tongue suddenly seemed as weak as it was. At least it wasn't cramping up.

"Tripped?" Dean supplied. Sam nodded. "You're gonna have to let me heal that eventually, I hope you realize. It looks awful and the smell of blood's everywhere." He paused, and it almost seemed like an afterthought when he asked, "Does it hurt?"

Sam just nodded, even though what he was feeling was rapidly approaching agony as the last of the adrenaline wore off, leaving him tired and fuzzy-headed. It didn't surprise him that Dean didn't remember the pain of frayed nerve endings exposed to the open air. Scrapes just seemed so  _human_  when he really thought about it.

"Yeah, no wonder," Dean said, nodding and then leaning forward to squint at him. "Looks like you've got dirt ground into you. That's just nasty." Regretfully, he added, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch when I take care of it for you."

"That doesn't surprise me," Sam said, heaving a sigh. Regrowing anything, from muscles to skin, was just about as painful as taking it off had been.

He waited silently after that, although he wasn't sure what for. Maybe for Dean to pack up and follow him back to the hotel. Or, better yet, teleport them as soon as they were out of the library. But none of that happened. Instead, Dean just cleared his throat after a while, gestured to the chair next to him, and almost gently suggested, "Go ahead and take a seat, Sammy."

Sam reflexively glanced towards the door, feeling a thread of panic wrap itself around his stomach because Dean wasn't listening to him and it wasn't like he could run off without him. "But we've gotta - "

"I know," Dean interrupted, but not in an asshole kind of way. "And we will. We'll leave in just a few minutes, I promise. This is bad; I don't like that they're here, and I really don't want either of us near them. But you're gonna choose a hunt first, so we know where we're going."

"Do we really have time for that?" Sam asked, shaking his head and spreading his hands.

"We're fine," Dean replied. "They're a ways away, and if they're not working a case here, they're not coming to the library. They're not gonna follow you, either. You said they didn't recognize you."

"They didn't, but - " Sam looked at the door again, and cut himself off, not sure how to justify how anxious he was feeling. There had to be a reason, right? He just needed to find the right words to explain it to Dean.

"I'll get us outta here like  _that_ if one of them comes in," Dean said, snapping his fingers. "And if they try to put a devil's trap around this whole building so I can't teleport, I'll feel it before they close it, and we'll leave. It'll be okay." He just stared at Sam for a few seconds, then sighed, looking away and shaking his head slightly. "Just sit down. Please. You're shaking."

Sam knew Dean was trying to placate him, and wasn't sure he could actually tell when a devil's trap was being drawn around him. Other demons couldn't, and at the end of the day, all that separated a Knight from the infernal hoi polloi was raw power. Not so much increased sensitivity. It shouldn't have made him feel better, and he hated that it did.

"Fine," Sam said stiffly, and not just because it was getting hard to move his face. Especially the scraped part. He crossed the few feet between himself and the chair, almost painfully conscious of the weakness in his left leg, and hoped Dean wouldn't say anything if he didn't. He should've known better.

"You hurt your leg, too?" Dean asked as Sam lowered himself into the chair.

"Yep."

"Well, that sucks." Dean turned the laptop towards him, unplugging the headphones and winding the cord up around the ear cups. "Sooner we finish this, though, sooner I can patch you up."

"I know." Dean's abilities wouldn't do anything for his leg, but they would at least take care of all the external injuries, which would admittedly be pretty nice. They were starting to get really distracting.

He reached for the laptop and scooted it a little closer to himself, studying the screen. He'd intended to go through the tabs, every one (besides the one Dean had open to listen to music), and at least skim through the articles that Dean had dug up; he really had. Even though he was still pretty sure that this was a waste of time that they couldn't afford, and he felt like this was a way for Dean to force him to pick a case because he didn't trust him to do it on his own. As soon as he touched the track pad, though, everything that'd happened today seemed to bear down on him at once. Running into the hunters, the fall, remembering everyone. An irresistible urge to be as petulant as possible came with it. He clicked on the first tab that Dean had open, then pointed to the story that came up without bothering to read the title or where it was from.

"That one," he said. Dean reached for the laptop and tugged it back over to himself so he could see what Sam had chosen, then frowned.

"That one?" he repeated, a little doubtfully. "You sure?"

"Yes," Sam replied, stubbornly ignoring the feeling that he'd end up regretting this later.

"Okay." Apparently content to give Sam enough rope to hang himself if he was really determined to do so, Dean shrugged and folded the screen of the laptop down. "Grave desecration in Montana it is."

Sam remained stonily silent as Dean put the laptop back in the case and added the headphones before zipping it up. He was frustrated and angry, but still couldn't put a finger on exactly why. Maybe it was just everything, all of it, since he'd had to leave his cabin. Or since Dean had been brought to him. Or since his leg had been ruined. Or maybe just since he'd been born.

"Let's go." Sam was broken out of his thoughts by Dean's voice, and looked up to find him standing over him. He had the laptop case in one hand and was offering the other to Sam. His eyes were soft and his face was kind. He seemed to have trouble with expressions sometimes, apparently not quite used to using his meat to imitate the human he'd been born as, but he'd nailed it this time.

Something loosened in Sam. Just barely. He let Dean help him up.

They left the library, pausing to assure the still-worried librarian that Sam would be fine. Dean would be with him for the rest of the day and he knew how to take care of him. Sam considered telling her goodbye, since they wouldn't be back and she'd been pretty nice to both of them, but ultimately didn't. He pushed through the front door with Dean.

Once they were past the parking lot, Dean put his free arm around Sam's waist, letting him lean heavily on him since he was still limping. They weren't that far from the motel and people might be watching, so Dean didn't teleport them. He did turn and press his face into Sam's hair when they were nearly to their room, though.

"C'mon - you don't wanna do that," Sam complained. He nudged Dean with his shoulder, but not hard enough to actually push him away. "I haven't showered since yesterday and I'm all sweaty."

"I think you smell good," Dean replied, voice muffled by Sam's scalp. He did pull back after a second, though, and look at Sam. He observed, "You're in kind of a dark place right now."

Sam sighed. "It's just been a shitty morning. I'll be fine - especially once we're out of here."

"Is that all it is?" Dean asked, rubbing Sam's hip. When Sam nodded, he asked, "How d'you feel about the hunt?"

"'Bout as well as I can expect to," Sam replied. "It's just something I'm gonna have to do no matter how I feel about it."

"Could be worse, I guess." Dean unlocked their door without using the key. "Before we pack up and go, I'm gonna heal you, and you're not gonna argue. Go sit on the bed."

Sam groaned loudly, unable to suppress a twinge of resentment but aware he wasn't going to change Dean's mind. He limped into the room, lowered himself gingerly onto the foot of the bed, and braced for what was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ghouls are some of those very rare monsters where there are a lot of them, all over the place, but you're not going to run into them very often. For the most part, they're passive scavengers who will work as hard to avoid you as you do them. They do feed on humans, but those humans are almost always dead first. Because of this, they're also an important part of our ecosystem, but that's not exactly relevant._

_Ghouls will only become a problem for a couple of reasons, and a major one has to do with embalming fluid. Most corpses these days are embalmed, and the process does involve replacing the body's blood with, basically, a poison. Feeding off embalmed bodies will slowly kill ghouls, render them sterile, and occasionally cause brain damage or dementia. This is why you'll see higher concentrations of healthy ghouls in cemeteries where a lot of people whose faiths don't allow embalming, like Orthodox Judaism and Islam, are buried. Those aren't common, though._

_They're technically shapeshifers. They can take the form of anybody they've fed off of, and when they eat, they automatically take on the appearance of whoever they've got their teeth in. This means that they can approach people as their dead relatives, which makes it easy for unstable ghouls, sick ones, or those who are just tired of eating tainted meat to hunt living humans. Luckily, killing them isn't all that complicated._

_-_ Ghouls, Ghosts, and Graveyards in General, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam frowned down at the laminated card in his hands, tilting it so it caught the sunlight, then spinning it between his fingertips. He looked at the picture, then the logo, then the rest of the information on it. After a second, he lowered it and glanced over at Dean, whose own card was sitting on the seat between them.

"I don't know," he told him. "It just doesn't look real to me."

"It'll look a lot better once you get it in the holder, with the badge," Dean replied without looking at him. "Plus, even if it ain't exact, most people only look at it for about half a second, and they've got no idea what a real FBI badge looks like. Just flashing it at 'em is enough."

Sam eyed the card critically. He had to admit that he had no idea what a real FBI badge looked like himself. He had had contact with legitimate agents, but considering that he'd been unconscious when they picked him up, he hadn't exactly had the opportunity to ask for a peek at their badges. The closest he'd ever gotten was his father's fake one, and Bobby's (from whose house Dean had scavenged the covers they were going to use...along with a few of his own older IDs, for various occupations). He didn't remember them exactly, since his memory was pretty good but not photographic, but he thought this one might be better.

He'd never had one before. When he'd been a hunter the first time, he'd been way too young to pass for any kind of agent, marshal, or officer, and he'd looked it, despite his height. So his dad had kept him away from interviews and had him do mostly library research and wetwork. Maybe he was nervous about this badge because it meant he was going to be interacting with total strangers, most of whom had recently experienced a traumatic event. While impersonating an officer of the law.

Clearly able to pick up on Sam's unease, Dean cleared his throat to get his attention. "It probably looks fake to you for the same reason you're gonna look fake to the people we talk to." He shot him a glare. "Your stupid hair."

Sam scowled back. "If people don't know what an FBI badge looks like, they're probably not going to know about FBI haircut regulations, either. Besides." He tapped the little plastic-covered card. "This says I'm a  _special_ agent. Maybe the rules are different for them." He raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Plus, FBI agents are supposed to be clean-shaven, and you've got some pretty serious stubble going on."

"Well, not like I can shave it off." Dean took a hand off the wheel in order to rub his chin, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. "It won't grow back."

"So?"

"Your hair  _would_  grow back," Dean returned. "Why don't you cut it?"

"Fine." Sam backed down. "We've got the suits, we've got the guns, and now we've got the badges." He lifted his. "Which, according to you, nobody's going to look too closely at. That should be enough." He finally dropped the card on top of Dean's and resolved not to look at it anymore, sick of his own deer-in-the-headlights expression in the photo on it. He'd been startled by the flash. "How much further to Black Eagle?"

"Not too much," Dean replied. "Coming up on Great Falls now." When Sam made to turn around in his seat so he could reach into the box in the back, Dean warned, " _Don't_  look at the road map again."

Sam snorted. But stayed where he was anyway. "Remember that discussion we had the other day? About the fine line between 'protective boyfriend' and 'controlling asshole' and how you kinda seem to have one foot on either side of it lately?" Dean didn't answer, and probably not because the highway was taking up all of his attention. Sam let the silence stretch out for a few moments, then looked away from Dean, staring out the window. "I'm not gonna have a breakdown just 'cause there's a town called Vaughn near Great Falls. It's not a big deal."

"You can keep telling yourself that, if you want," Dean replied. "But I know how you felt when you first saw it."

Sam didn't say anything for a while. He picked at a knot in the stitching of his jeans, watching farmland and forests roll by outside the tiny enclosed environment of the car, and tried to pretend that he wasn't almost painfully aware of the small box in his backpack, in the trunk, next to Dean's duffel. Dean stayed quiet, too. Maybe five minutes passed, then Sam felt a hand against his own. Not holding or grabbing, just touching. He sighed softly through his nose, and didn't move. Dean took his hand back after another few minutes.

"So it's gonna be another half-hour," Dean said, voice neutral. He seemed to have near-perfect control over how he sounded. No matter what he might be feeling if he wanted to talk casually, it never came out sounding forced. Sam didn't think he'd ever met anybody with that ability before. "Maybe forty-five minutes. Depends on the traffic, so let's hope nobody hits a moose."

Sam smirked. He knew it'd been meant as a joke, but it was a possibility - this was Montana, and from what he'd seen so far, he was mostly convinced that the entire state was rural.

"So are you thinking it's a ghoul?" Sam asked Dean, changing the subject.

"Yeah, that's the main thing that digs up graves and eats corpses," Dean agreed, nodding. "It could be something more exotic, I guess, but when you hear hoofbeats..."

"Horses, not zebras. Especially up here." The knot on Sam's jeans was starting to unravel; he hastily stopped picking at it, on the off chance pulling it loose made his pants fall apart. "It's gotta be more than one, right? Usually they tunnel in from underneath the grave, so no one can tell they've been feeding. But that takes time. If there are a bunch of them and they're desperate for food, that could explain why they're ripping in from above." He shrugged. "Just what I was thinking."

"Yeah, it's either that or one that's sick or crazy," Dean agreed. "Either way, it's a problem 'cause it's only a matter of time 'til they either run outta graves or get tire of coffin surprise and decide to switch over to live people." He rubbed a thumb against the ridges of the steering wheel, appearing to think, then eventually commented, "You probably know this already, but we almost never have to go after ghouls, since they feed on people who're already dead and they don't pop out mini-ghouls very fast." He seemed to be really warming to the topic. "See, a good-sized cemetery - 'specially one that's still active - can support a whole clan for - "

"Mischief."

Sam's interrupt brought Dean up short. He saw him blink, but thankfully, his eyes didn't switch over. They were on a highway, so there were a ton of people who might see it if they did.

"Uh. What?"

"A group of ghouls is called a mischief," Sam replied. "Not a clan. And their babies are pups." Though he actually liked "mini-ghouls" better.

"Says who?" Dean demanded.

"Says  _me_." It wasn't without a certain degree of smugness that Sam added, "Writing the books on monsters means I get to decide on the terminology."

Dean stared at him for a long time, far past the point where a human driver would've had to look back at the road. Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting. Finally, Dean asked, "So why in the  _living fuck_ would you choose  _that_  terminology?"

"Took it from rats," Sam replied. He'd had to defend this before. "Since rats used to be a huge problem in graveyards, and they used the same feeding methods ghouls usually do." He shrugged. "Y'know, the ghoul I studied liked it. Did you know they actually have a really rich oral culture? He - she -  _it_  knew they used to live side-by-side with graveyard rats up to a couple hundred years ago, but it wasn't sure whether they competed with them or kind of domesticated them. Maybe it was - "

"Okay, okay, just - shut up, I don't..." Shaking his head, Dean held an open hand out towards Sam. "I really don't care. None of that sounds like it's gonna help me take own whatever it is we're after here." He put his hand back on the wheel and glanced over at him. "How did it take so long for somebody to come to your cabin and try to kill you?"

" _Wow_ , Dean," Sam said, putting as much venom into the two words as he could manage.

"Sorry." Looking frustrated, Dean ran a hand over his hair. "I'm glad it took so long."

"Uh, yeah...me, too." It'd been a passable apology, so Sam let it go. Helping a demon re-learn how to act like a human being was a lot like potty-training a puppy. He had accidents, Sam reprimanded him, he did better the next time. And, when he did well, he got rewarded.

"You hungry?" Dean asked after a little while. Recognizing an attempt on Dean's part to take care of him and therefore make amends, Sam glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nearing noon, so a meal might be a good idea.

"Yeah, I could eat."

They stopped at a diner in Great Falls. Sam wasn't sure why, but Dean really seemed to prefer these kinds of locally-owned greasy spoons to chain restaurants. He wasn't about to complain, since their salads (when they had them, at least) usually seemed to be fresher. Once he'd eaten, they kept heading north into Black Eagle, where they wasted about an hour looking for a motel. It was a fine line between a place that was cheap enough for them to afford and discreet enough for their purposes, and a place that charged by the hour.

They finally did manage to locate a place that'd work, even if the guy behind the desk gave the two of them a ridiculously nasty look when they asked for one bed. If Sam had been the one reserving the room, he might've asked for two. They'd only use one, but it was worth it to avoid the negative attention that they attracted when people knew they were a couple. It was always Dean, though, and he practically reveled in the open stares and the muttered slurs and the hostility. Maybe he somehow fed off the bad energy.

"Okay." Dean unlocked the door to the room. With the key, because there were other guests around. "We've got a pretty standard list of places to hit up while it's still light out. Sheriff's office, morgue, wherever the cemetery's caretaker hangs out when he's not taking care. Maybe the local funeral home, too." He stepped into the room, still talking. Sam followed with his backpack slung over one shoulder. "So we need to suit up, put our badges together, and - "

"Actually, I've...got a few calls to make," Sam said, suppressing a sigh. He'd been dreading this all day. Since Bellevue, really. He'd told himself he'd wait until they were settled in the town they were doing the hunt in, and that had come much quicker than he'd expected it to.

"Who to?" Dean asked, turning to him with a frown.

"You know Ellen." Sam set his backpack down on the bed for the moment. The room was decorated in hunter kitsch - conventional hunter, not his sort. Wallpaper patterned with game animals (salmon, elk, duck) was interrupted by wood laminate wainscoting. Day-Glo orange pillows sat on top of a camouflage bedspread. A tiny pair of plastic antlers, meant to be used as either a coat hook or a holder for the room key, had been affixed to the wall near the door. Not at all up Sam's alley as far as interior decorating went, but it could be worse. "And you saw Garth when he brought me supplies back when you were still tied up." He let the sigh from earlier out. "There are others, too. All the people who used to take care of me. And I haven't talked to any of them in months, but I need to call all of them at least once, so I can explain what's happening to me, because they deserve that much."

When he turned around to face Dean, he looked surprised. "You haven't called any of them?"

"When would I have?" Sam replied. "You've been with me practically the entire time since I left the cabin. Did you ever see me call anybody?"

"No," Dean admitted. "You're right, though - you really oughta check in. From what you told me, these people're a pretty huge part of your life." It was Sam's turn to be surprised, since he hadn't expected him to understand anywhere near as well as he clearly did. "But you really haven't made a peep to anybody since everything went down?"

Sam shook his head, the guilt setting in all over again.

"How d'you think they're gonna react to your..." Dean walked over and sat down on the corner of the bed, then gestured back and forth between the two of them. "Elopement?"

"I don't know." Sam put his hands over his face, then dragged them up and back through his hair. Unlike the crowd he'd run into back in Bellevue, his sexuality wouldn't bother them: most knew already, and the one or two who didn't wouldn't care. They might about the fact that his boyfriend wasn't human, though. "Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm more worried about: that, or the fact I killed a hunter."

"Uh, right," Dean agreed, and raised both eyebrows. "After that hunter damn near caved your giant skull in with a shotgun butt, strapped you to a chair with zipties, basically tortured you while you were out, an then told you he was gonna leave you to die. I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of self-defense is, but that's gotta come pretty close." He leaned back, as if reminiscing. "Plus, the fact that you killed him with your feet while you were still tied up is just so freaking cool that you could probably get a pass on it even if he'd been Mother Teresa reincarnated." He must have felt Sam's reaction to that. It would have been easy, seeing as it was immediate, deep, and visceral. "Sorry, but...the way you ganked him's really not something you've gotta feel guilty about. 'Specially 'cause the only reason your legs were free to begin with was he didn't think you'd be able to do any damage with them."

"I don't wanna talk about it, Dean." Sam turned away from him. It felt like this happened every time either one of them brought up Gordon's death, and it was infuriating. Dean could detect exactly how he felt about this, so shouldn't that make him more sympathetic rather than less?

"Well, you're gonna have to talk about it with  _them_ ," Dean replied. "I know you feel bad about this, but I don't know  _why_. And I know you think your friends are gonna wanna crucify you for it, but again, no idea why. Did any of them  _like_  him? 'Cause I just can't see that happening." He shook his head. "I spent time with Gordon too, remember? And I know I'm a demon and all and he was probably justified in some of the stuff he did to me, but it was still perfectly clear that the guy was a psychopath. He didn't draw the line anywhere when it came to torture and murder. He was hard to read, but he might've even gotten off on it."

"Pot and kettle." It wasn't a nice thing to say, but Sam couldn't see Dean being terribly offended by it.

" _Wow_ , Sam," Dean said, and then just sat there for a minute, apparently waiting for an apology. Sam, who wasn't about to offer one, just raised his eyebrows again. Eventually, Dean snorted, shook his head, and continued, in a much more serious tone of voice. "Look. Like you said, I know Ellen. Or I knew her, at least, and I just can't imagine she'd've changed to the point where she'd cry over a guy like Gordon between then an now. She's not gonna hate you for what happened with him. Neither's Garth. Neither are any of the others. I can almost guarantee."

Logically, Sam knew Dean was right. When logic and emotion competed for space in his brain, though, logic didn't always win. He chose to change the subject a little. "What about what happened with you?"

Dean hesitated before answering the question. "Yeah. I'm not sure about that one. Could do...any way at all, really. Especially depending on the person. And how you explain things." He paused again, and Sam didn't have to be psychically empathetic to be able to see how hard it was for him to force himself to offer, "Want me to talk to anybody?"

"No," Sam said, letting him off the hook. And not mentioning that he doubted any of them would want to talk to Dean even if he asked. "I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

"Good to hear." Dean's subtle relaxation might've been all in Sam's head, but then again, it might not've. "So...you just want me to wait outside 'til you're all done with everybody, or what? Or at least however many people you're planning to call today."

"Uh..." Sam blinked. "I thought you were gonna 'suit up' and go interview people."

"Yeah, with you," Dean replied, as if that really should have gone without saying.

"Why d'you have to have me with you?" Sam asked, honestly puzzled.

"Well...y'know." Dean shrugged, starting to look a little embarrassed. "I just need you to...kinda...keep an eye out, and pay attention, and do that thing you do." He waited a second, then tacked on another entirely-useless but hopeful-sounding, "Y'know?"

"What thing?"

Dean shook his head. "I really don't wanna go alone."

"Obviously, but  _why_?" Sam pressed. He was wracking his brain, but he couldn't come up with any "thing" he did that Dean would need to work a case.

He had to admit, though. If this was Dean's way of distracting him from the stress of reaching out to call all his friends again after months of silence, it was a great tactic.

"FBI agents are suppose to have partners," Dean stated. A little stubbornly, to Sam's ears.

"Usually, but I'm pretty sure they can work alone, too," Sam replied. "Plus, you could always just tell people I'm busy doing something else, since they're bound to see us together later. Research. Checking in with our supervisor. Whatever."

Dean raked a hand through his hair. Sam knew he usually put gel in it, and today hadn't been an exception, so he had to suppress a wince when his fingers didn't get caught. He couldn't believe he hadn't yanked out any of his hair, doing that.

"That's not the point," Dean said, then went on and plowed ahead before Sam could dryly ask him what the point was. "If you're with me, you can...make sure I..." He glanced away, and his voice dropped to a mumble for the last part. "Act normal."

Sam reached for one of the chairs at the room's small table, dragging it over so he could sit down across from Dean. He straddled it backwards, folding his arms and leaning on the back of the chair.

"So that's what's got you all worried?" he asked, frowning. "You'll be fine. Just don't let your eyes switch. You don't need me there - you can pass for human. You do it every day!"

"It's  _different_  when it's just me and you, or when it doesn't really matter," Dean insisted. "Like when I'm getting a room for us or ordering you a coffee. But you're nervous as hell about working a case, doing interviews, all that stuff. I can tell, and I know it's 'cause it's been years. Well, I'm in the same boat." He put a hand on his chest. "Plus, I know I've hardly even gotta mention how much I've changed since the last time I did this."

Dean had a point, and Sam felt bad when he realized he hadn't given any of this any thought before now. Of course he'd considered having your mind and emotions - your soul itself - broken and twisted to the point where you literally couldn't behave or feel the way you'd used to, but left just intact enough to realize you'd changed and sort of remember how you'd been to begin with. To say he couldn't imagine it, despite how much time he'd spent with Dean, barely scratched the surface of his ignorance. But the difficulties of returning to something you'd used to do before, when you were so different, hadn't ever occurred to him. In comparison, Sam had it easy.

"To get anything out of an interview, you've gotta get people to trust you," Dean continued, after a few seconds of silence. Hoping he hadn't been waiting for him to reply, Sam nodded his agreement. When weird, unbelievable stuff happened to people, ninety-nine percent were reluctant to tell anybody about it. Even a law enforcement officer or a reporter who focused on supernatural events or a faith leader (Sam had seen his father and other hunters impersonate them all, and more). You had to win them over. "The badge'll do a lot of that for you. But if somebody's perceptive, it won't stop them from noticing there's something wrong with me. And if they do, they won't talk to me."

"Okay - that's a legitimate concern," Sam agreed. He shouldn't have blown Dean off earlier. Especially considering how good Dean was with him when he was worrying about something much stupider and less consequential. "I'm not sure how much having me there would help, though. All I can really do is police you. You'll still have said something...y'know,  _bad_  by the time I snap at you."

"Just having you around is a big help," Dean replied. And although he didn't elaborate, Sam could remember the handful of times Dean had said being with him made him feel human. Helped him recall all the things he'd forgotten about his past life.

"How do other demons do it?" Sam asked. He hadn't meant to; it'd just sort of popped out. Even now, months after he'd written anything or taken any notes, he still slipped back into researcher mode at least a couple times a week. Then his curiosity couldn't be ignored. No matter the situation.

Dean snorted. "They've just got a lot more practice. 'Specially the crossroads crowd. But I really haven't been outta the Pit that long compared to other demons, and I haven't interacted with a lot of humans since, either. I didn't need to." He shrugged. "Even Princes and Lords, who're really supposed to spend most of their time in Hell when things are normal, have this 'human' act they can drop when they don't need it anymore. I never built one up, though. It's always just been me."

"That could be part of your problem," Sam suggested. The way Dean inclined his head slightly told him he didn't know what he was talking about, so he continued. "You've got a lot of emotions a normal demon doesn't. You said so yourself. But you still feel and think about things differently from a human. A human who's not a serial killer, at least." Dean scowled, and Sam raised his hands in a  _What can you do?_  sort of way. He suspected he hadn't actually hurt his feelings, anyway. "You're not switching back and forth. They're both part of your real personality, and since that's always on display, they both come out."

"Guess that makes sense." Dean put his hands behind him on the mattress and leaned on them, looking troubled. Then he sighed and brought one back around to rub at his face. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't be bitching about this right now. You've got all your calls to make, and I know you're not looking forward to it. I can handle the interviews."

"No, no - you don't have to if you're really uncomfortable with it." Sam stood, swinging one leg back over the chair and walking towards the bed. He sat down next to Dean. "And you don't have to apologize. This is a real concern; you've got every right to bitch." Sam was definitely not relieved that Dean was showing some insecurity, even though it was usually him and he'd been starting to feel like a crybaby. "We're working on it, we're both just gonna ease back into it. And if you want me to go with you, I will. Just let me at least call Ellen first." He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "But I really think you'd do okay. If you don't overthink it and stick to your topic, and let your badge and suit do their job."

Dean grunted. It wasn't as real of an answer as Sam would've liked, but at least it was an answer. They just sat on the bed together for a while, Dean not looking at him and Sam keeping a hand on his shoulder because he hadn't made any effort to shrug it off, and he wouldn't exactly say that it was  _nice_ , but it was at least comfortable. For Sam; he wasn't sure how Dean felt. Did he regret letting Sam see weakness from him? Was he trying to make up his mind about what to do? Sam was just about to ask him what he was thinking when Dean huffed out a loud breath, indicating he was about to say something.

"Guess I've gotta fly solo sooner or later no matter what," he commented. "After all, that's what I did most of the time before. And even when I was working with a partner, there are times when you've gotta split up. Cover more ground." He finally looked at Sam again, offering him a wry little smile. "Plus, after all the shit I've bullied you into doing, it'd be pretty hypocritical of me not to man up and do this."

"There's nothing hypocritical about wanting to wait for me," Sam argued immediately. "You've never 'bullied' me, and I need pushing sometimes. I spent my downtime writing books in a cabin." He swallowed. "You were in Hell. There's a pretty significant difference."

That had Dean looking away again, and he sort of wished he hadn't mentioned it. It was the truth, though. Sam let go of Dean as he stood up, folding his hands in his lap and watching him.

"I've already made up my mind," Dean said, turning to face him. "You're coming clean to everybody about me and Gordon and everything else; I'm gonna go interview everybody who might know anything about these ghouls. Simple as that." He pointed at Sam. "But if I screw up, you're gonna have to make the rounds after I do and smooth things over with those puppy-dog eyes of yours."

Sam wasn't entirely sure how Dean expected him to do that, but he supposed that this was a compromise he could get behind. So he nodded his agreement and waited on the bed while Dean changed into a suit. Before he left, he got up to tighten his tie, tuck the end of it into the waistband of his slacks, and button his jacket fully. He'd expected Dean to complain or make a crack about Sam not being his mother, but he actually seemed to appreciate it.

"Had a hard time remembering all those little things even when I was human," Dean commented. "Thanks."

"Gotta earn my keep somehow," Sam replied, finishing up with Dean's jacket. He hesitated, then put his hands on Dean's hips and looked down at him. Just barely. The difference in their heights wasn't all that great. "Good luck."

"It's a milk run," Dean replied. "Can't even count the number of cops and coroners I've interviewed over the years. I'll be fine, like you said." He raised a hand to stroke Sam's hair. "So'll you. These people are basically your family; they'll understand. And hopefully you'll wind up with somebody to lean on besides me."

Sam smirked, lifting only one side of his mouth. "Even if I don't, you're enough."

"I know. I'm awesome." Dean patted Sam's shoulder, stepped away from him, made sure he had his gun and badge (which identified him as Agent Ulrich), and then left.

Sam waited alone in the room for a few minutes, listening to the car's engine start up and then fade away as Dean drove off. He tried to think of something else he needed to do, anything, but there was nothing. The distraction Dean had provided had been very welcome, but he couldn't put it off anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

_Humans are social animals. Ironically, that's something we've got in common with a lot of monsters. Vampires, for example, who can't function outside of a nest and feel the urge to create more of their own when they're alone. (Which is why you have to make sure you get every member when you're exterminating a nest. For more information on vampires, click here.)_

_Believe me, I understand the urge to withdraw from other people. We can be dicks, and hunting provides you with more opportunities than normal to see the worst humanity has to offer. But you can't just shut out all other human beings. Not only are you going to have to depend on people in order to be successful in this line of work, but your own biology will make you crave company. Yes, just like a vampire._

_You need information to find and work a case, and most of it will come from people, both civilians and other hunters. Some things are too strong or too numerous for one person to take down, and you'll die if you try to do it without one or more partners. On a more basic level, you're probably going to starve to death if you can't bring yourself to interact with anyone. You can't work in any job, and especially not as a hunter, without coming into contact with people, and you can't function as a halfway-normal individual without a social network._

_The people in your network don't have to be your friends. In fact, it's likely they won't be. You'll probably either be much closer than friends or hardly able to stand each other, but how you feel about them doesn't matter just so long as you know you can trust them. You need someone you can talk to every once in a while, someone who will come looking for you if you don't check in, someone you can call on for help if you're hurt or in over your head._

_Just take my word for it: you won't get far without people to lean on._

_\- "The Hunting Community," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam went to his backpack and unzipped one of the outer pockets, pulling out his cell phone. It was new, and basically identical to the one that he'd accidentally obliterated: small and cheap. He turned it on as he sat down on the bed again and got set up to make a call. As far as he knew, Ellen still didn't have a cell phone. She didn't really need one, seeing as she rarely left Harvelle's Roadhouse. Up until recently, he'd been a lot like her - heavily involved in the hunting community, but not a hunter himself.

He didn't have the number for the Roadhouse's landline in his contacts. In fact, the only number he did have was for Dean's phone. It didn't matter because he had it memorized, had for years. He looked at the keypad, the numbers and the letters they represented glowing an artificial blue with backlight, and impulsively punched in the number before he had another chance to talk himself out of it.

He brought the phone up to his ear. He knew that he wouldn't have much time to prepare himself. Ellen never let it ring long, even when her place was busy (which it often was) because, in their world, any call to an establishment like the Roadhouse could literally be life or death.

It din't ring at all, though. Instead, there was silence, along with a faint clicking on the line. And then a robotic voice apologized, and told him that the number he'd dialed was no longer in use.

Sam brought the phone away from his ear before the familiar message could finish, staring down at it. The number he'd put in was still on the screen, and he knew it was right. He hadn't missed or messed up any digits. Just in case, though, he ended the call and tried dialing again, being almost exaggeratedly deliberate and careful about it this time. When he got the same result anyway, he was forced to admit that something was wrong.

It could've been something as innocent and mundane as the phone lines in that part of the country being down, either because of weather or human activity. That was a strong possibility; it was an older building, barely up to the standards of the twenty-first century and then only because of Ash's near-constant efforts, and one that was located in a rural part of Nebraska. But it seemed like nothing was ever innocent for Sam, especially these days. He'd spent months not even thinking about the Harvelles and Ash, and the past couple of days dreading making a call to them, but now he was suddenly desperate to make contact with them. It didn't matter if they thought he was a traitor or an abomination. He just wanted to know they were alive.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, with the camouflage comforter doing very little to pad out the lumpy mattress, Sam almost unconsciously bounced one leg rapidly up and down. He swallowed, hard, as he turned his phone around and around in his hands. He was on the verge of panic, but knew that he had to force himself to think.

Ellen wouldn't have changed the number. There were too many people that might've hurt, him possibly included. She didn't have a cell. That fact had already run through his mind earlier. Neither did Ash; he much preferred computers to phones. Sam briefly considered e-mailing him, then shook his head. Not only was he afraid to open his inbox, but there was no guarantee that an e-mail would reach Ash in anything resembling a timely manner.

(What if Ash had already e-mailed him, though? What if an explanation for what was going on now had been sitting in Sam's inbox for weeks - or, even worse, a request for help? What if they were all dead now because he was too much of a coward to scroll through a few hundred death threats and personal insults?

(He needed to log onto his account and face the damn music, once he'd exhausted all his other options.)

Jo almost certainly had a phone, given her age and the fact that she'd started venturing out from home every once in a while. Not for college or work; Ellen was terrified she was going to start hunting. Sam knew that, but he'd been too wrapped up in his own little world to ever think about asking for her number.

He wasn't going to be able to contact any of them. His best shot would be to call somebody else and hope they could tell him what'd happened, either Charlie or Garth. More people talked to Garth, so he'd probably be a better bet.

Sam had his number memorized, too. He dialed it.

His shoulders literally slumped with relief when it rang, instead of delivering another error message. He knew what he would've done if he hadn't been able to get ahold of Garth - he would've tried to call Charlie - but it definitely would've sent his anxiety levels rocketing up.

"Hey, there, who's this?" Garth's voice, bright and effortlessly friendly, had Sam sucking in an unexpectedly sharp breath. "I don't recognize your number."

Leave it to him to take a call from an unknown number and be nice about it. Sam had to swallow and clench his free hand into a fist in an effort to pull himself together before he could speak; he hadn't realized how much he'd been missing him this whole time.

"It's me," Sam said quietly. He wasn't sure what to expect, even from Garth. "Sam. Winchester."

"Oh my god! Sam!" Garth's response was immediate and his excitement palpable, even through the phone. His volume had gone up, too, and Sam had to move his cell an inch or two away from his ear in order to avoid getting a headache. "You wouldn't  _believe_  how much I've missed you, and - and - how freaking  _worried_  I've been. I went to your cabin when I started hearing things, and it was trashed! Nobody knew where you were and I couldn't even find anybody who knew for sure you were alive. Not that a lot of people have been willing to talk to me lately." Sam winced. That was another thing that hadn't occurred to him: how what he'd done might affect the standing of everybody he was involved with. The whole community, practically, knew Garth's connection to him. "Oh, man, you should hear what they're saying about you. I mean, you probably don't want to, most of it's pretty awful. I know a lot of it can't be true, and I wanted to talk to you  _so_ bad, but of course your phone's dead and I already told you I didn't know where you were and Ash says you haven't been answering e-mails, but now you called me, so - jeez, Sam, what  _happened_?"

Sam opened his mouth. Not to offer an explanation; not yet. Garth had mentioned Ash without any grief in his voice or the past tense, and it'd set Sam's heart to soaring in his chest. So he needed to ask about that. Garth interrupted him before he could, though.

"But I guess that doesn't really matter. First thing's first." Sam heard him draw in a deep breath. "How are you? Are you okay? Do you need help?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. "I'm not hurt, and I'm not being held hostage or anything." He looked down at his left leg, turning it one way and then the other. Even through the heavy jeans he was wearing, it was obvious the calf was whole, unlike it'd been the last time he'd seen Garth. "I'm...better than I've been in a long time, actually. A long, long time."

"Well, that's good to hear. I'm really glad about that," Garth said, then paused. He had to have a million questions for Sam. Maybe he was sorting through them and trying to decide which one to ask first. "Wh - "

"Garth, I'm sorry." Sam was the one to interrupt this time. "I'll explain everything. I promise. But I need to know." He swallowed. "I called the Roadhouse, and the phone..."

"Ooh. Right," Garth said, reflectively. "Yeah, you've really missed a lot, and that is a  _long_  story, but I'm guessing that all you want right now's to know everybody's okay." Sam was so desperate he nodded fervently before remembering that that wouldn't do Garth a whole lot of good, over the phone. Luckily, he continued anyway. "Well, don't you worry. Everyone's fine. Ellen, Jo, Ash, everybody else there at the time."

"Oh, thank god." Sam let out a huge breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Of course he was curious about just what, exactly, had happened "at the time"...but right now, he was so relieved he was almost worried about passing out. All he could focus on was that he hadn't lost anyone.

"You know, actually, I'm with them right now," Garth commented, with the happy tone of someone who'd just unexpectedly remembered something important. Sam heard him walking and felt a tickle of foreboding in his stomach. "Hold on a second, let me put you on speakerphone!"

"Oh, no, please d - " Sam stopped abruptly when the echo of his own voice reached him, cringing. Maybe it'd be faster and easier to get four of the five out of the way at once. But one-on-one just seemed so much... _safer_  than this. At least he'd only have one person at a time damning him to Hell in that format, if worst came to worst.

There was silence. Such a long period of it that Sam would've wondered if the call had been dropped or Garth had accidentally hung up on him, if he hadn't been able to just barely detect breathing and the rustling of clothes. And Garth's voice, very faint but sounding encouraging, saying something like, "Well, go on, somebody's gotta say something."

Finally, what was unmistakably Ellen cautiously asked, "Sam?"

"Yeah...h-hi," he responded shakily. He was half afraid of what she was going to say and half relieved all over again to hear her voice. It wasn't like he didn't trust Garth, but hearing for himself was different. Even with the odd, scratchy quality that being on speakerphone lent her.

Ellen blew out a huge breath that Sam's phone translated as a lot of crackling. "Jesus Christ, you are just bound and determined to be the death of me, aren't you?"

"I - god, Ellen, I'm so sorry." Sam buried the fingers of his free hand in his hair. "I should've called months ago. I don't know why I didn't; I don't have a good excuse. I can't imagine what it's been like for you."

"It's been hell," Ellen said matter-of-factly. "Between you and Jo - " There was a soft snort in the background. Almost certainly Jo. "- and all the other shit that's come down on us recently...well, at least I knew where you were all the time, even if you weren't checking in, but I haven't even been able to say that, these past few months."

"We were pretty sure you weren't dead," someone interjected. Ash; definitely Ash. "Seeing as I've been managing to dig up security cam footage of you every week or so. You, and..."

"Dean Singer," Ellen stated, voice neutral. "Looking exactly like he did the last time I saw him, I might add. Twenty years ago. I'd assume that's because there's a Knight of Hell wearing him."

"Um...yeah, yes and no," Sam said, clearing his throat. "I can actually explain that. Trust me."

"I'm sure you've got a good excuse." Ellen was still perfectly neutral.

"I can think of one," Jo commented. "The vessel's gorgeous. Well done, Sam - just so long as you overlook the demon thing."

"Right...thanks, Jo." Despite himself, Sam blushed, remembering all the times he and Dean had kissed and embraced - and Dean had teasingly grabbed his ass just to watch him yelp and shy away - within full view of security cameras at gas stations and diners and motels. There was no way they thought the two of them were anything as innocent as traveling or hunting partners. They were; it was just that they were more, too.

"You didn't tell  _me_  you'd seen him," Garth said, sounding hurt.

"Sorry, man," Ash replied. "Been a bit busy."

"What happened?" Sam jumped in, that reminding him that they, too, had been through something major. There was just so damn much going on in his head right now, and it was hard to keep it all straight. Shame, guilt, justification, concern, relief, excitement... "I know something went down - Garth told me it's a long story. I got really worried about you guys because the phone was down when I tried to call the Roadhouse."

There was a pause, and Sam wondered if he'd said something wrong.

"Right," Ellen said after a moment, sighing. "I'd bet you're not exactly in contact with a lot of hunters right now. Doesn't surprise me you don't know."

"What don't I know?" Sam repeated. He dropped his hand from his hair to the bedspread, fisting a handful of it and squeezing. The cotton batting inside was just about as lumpy as the mattress. He couldn't help being anxious. He wasn't all that high-strung naturally, but it wasn't like recent times had been restful for him.

"We lost the Roadhouse," Ellen said heavily. "There was a fire. Happened when we were gearing up for the evening rush, so we weren't too crowded. Burned fast and hot, but everybody got out in plenty of time, and the fire department showed up real quick, too, but there wasn't..." She trailed off, her voice having thickened at the end.

"Oh, my god." Sam slowly shook his head. "Oh, man, Ellen...I'm so sorry."

He had a special emotional connection to the Roadhouse. He'd lived there for a long time, recovering from the wound to his leg, and he was close to the proprietors. But he'd be willing to bet that he and the people on the other end of the phone weren't the only ones mourning the loss of Harvelle's Roadhouse. It was - had been - one of the few places meant specifically for hunters, and had been since Ellen and her late husband had first opened it. It was a safe haven, a place to pick up cases, partners, and information. No one had to hide what they did or what they knew there. Sam's books had been proudly on display right inside the door, taking up a couple of large cases with the prices (a couple bucks each, just to recoup production costs) written on the shelves in silver Sharpie.

It had been representative of their entire way of life, a monument to what they did, proof that they could always put aside their differences and come together against the darkness that filled the world.

And now it was gone. Burned to the ground.

"Nobody died," Ellen responded. "And we can always rebuild." Sam wasn't sure who she was trying to convince: him, or herself.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked her. He heard her draw in a breath that hitched slightly on the way.

"Fire investigator wasn't sure," she replied. "He seemed surprised by how fast it burned and how much damage it did, which makes me think something from our side of things happened there." She cleared her throat, and it sounded like she shifted her position. "So my best guess is demons. I know some of them have a way with fire, and it seems like there are more an more of them around every day. They're pushing west. And they'd have to be stupid not to target a gathering place for hunters."

"Any signs?" Sam asked. "Storms? Cattle mutilation? Sulfur?"

Ellen laughed. The sound was bleak. "The first two are everywhere these days. Your Knight might be able to tell you something about that." It probably wasn't meant as a jab (there was no bite behind it), but Sam winced anyway. "And the smell of smoke was too thick to tell about the third one, but my money's still on demons." A sigh. "Either them, or..."

"Or what?" Sam prompted when she didn't continue.

"Hunters." Jo spoke up. "Either demons, or hunters. Using charms or spells or maybe even some kind of creature. Like happened with your mom, Sam." Voice hushed, Ellen admonished, "Joanna."

Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head, but not because of the mention of his mother. She was the reason he'd been brought up as a hunter by his father, but he'd never known her beyond a couple pictures and the few stories his dad would tell when he got drunk enough. The fire that had killed her was twenty-six years ago this month - his age. It was something else about what Jo had said that'd hit him so hard.

"This was my fault," he realized quietly.

"Sam, no," Ellen said immediately, and he pictured her firmly shaking her head. "You had nothing to do with this, no matter who it was." Then, almost gently, "The world doesn't revolve around you."

"It has recently, though," Jo was quick to point out. "Our world, at least. He's all anybody's been talking about for months." She addressed Sam directly: "Before the fire, practically every hunter who came through our doors asked us about you and what happened. But we didn't know."

"Were they angry?" Sam asked quietly, picturing hulking, furious hunters confronting and threatening Ellen, Jo, and Ash. Who definitely knew how to defend themselves (Ellen, for one, kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt scattershot rounds under the bar and had never been afraid to use it on especially unruly patrons), but were all small and kind of frail in stature compare to the average hunter.

"Some," Jo admitted.

"A lot," Ash put in. "Most."

"I wouldn't say  _most_." That was Garth, jumping in after having been silent for a few minutes. "A lot of the people who talked to me were just confused. They wanted to know the truth."

"Lotta rumors flying around," Ellen agreed. "But you don't usually get into this life - and survive - if you're stupid. There are plenty of people out there who aren't buying into the usual bullshit, like us." She paused, then sighed yet again. "But...yeah. There were still a lot who knew about our connection to you and assumed we were in on the whole goddamn thing. Demons, the east coast, Gordon dying, every hunter who's ever been killed, whatever. Who the hell knows."

"Not sure the life draws intellectuals so much as crackpots," Ash commented. "Y'know, conspiracy theorists." Jo mumbled something Sam didn't quite pick up, maybe "tape over your webcam," and Ash fiercely hissed, "You  _know_   they'd be watching me if they could just figure out  _how_."

"I'm sorry." Sam said it heavily, trying to deliver all of his guilt and regret in the two words. Because even if what'd happened to the Roadhouse hadn't been his fault, he had a whole truckload of other things to apologize for.

"We're all okay," Ellen replied. "Glad to hear you are, too."

That was probably a hint for Sam to start unloading the entire story of his current situation, but he still had a few more questions for them. "Where are you guys staying now?"

"My mother-in-law owns a motel," Ellen said. "One of those gimmicky ones - bunch of separate cabins. She gave us the biggest one."

"The honeymoon suite," Garth clarified, then stifled a giggle. Sam heard Ash snort.

"Oh," Sam said. "Well, that must be - "

"She hates us," Jo interrupted.

"Joanna Beth," Ellen snapped.

"What? She does!" Jo replied. "She's got no idea what to make of Ash, and she's made it pretty clear she blames you and me - mostly you - for..."

At that point, the Harvelles either dropped their voices or moved too far away from Garth's phone for Sam to hear them, because the argument became muffled and indistinct. At one point, Ellen distantly exclaimed, "How would you even know? You're never here!" but other than that, Sam couldn't catch what they were saying. He had a pretty good idea, though. It was the same old argument; he'd seen its beginnings when he was living at the Roadhouse and Jo had just been starting high school. It'd been tame back then, barely even a fight, but it'd gotten fiercer and fiercer as time passed. Sam had started involving himself as his leg healed, sometimes taking Ellen's side, sometimes Jo's, depending on who was making the better point. Right now, though, all he could do was sit on the bed and hold the phone to his ear in awkward silence, like he'd used to back when he'd very first been welcomed into their tiny family. He'd been away for too long, lost both the right and the knowledge to jump in.

Ash and Garth were quiet, too. Garth wasn't really a relative, either (come to think of it, why was he even there?), and Ash never got involved. He usually retreated to his room when Ellen and Jo started going at it, apparently more comfortable with the problems of computers than people.

Eventually, a door slammed, and it sounded like only one person returned to the phone. When Ellen spoke, Sam assumed Jo had stormed out of the room.

"Sorry about that, Sam." She sounded tired.

"It's fine." Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "So things're still rough on that front, huh?"

"You could say that," Ellen confirmed. "Been getting worse since we got here, I think." Glass clinked. Was she drinking something? "She wants to hunt. Get out there and 'do some good,' as she puts it. You know how I feel about that."

"Yeah. I do."

"All other things aside, Sam, I'm glad you're back on the radar," Ellen told him. "I've been wishing I had you around to talk to Jo lately. She'd probably be more likely to listen to you than me, and you know what can happen with hunting. I don't mean to sound cold, but you're a living example."

"Uh," Sam said. "That's probably not a good idea."

"How d'you mean?"

There were any number of reasons why Sam didn't want to (couldn't, really) talk to Jo about hunting on Ellen's behalf. Some made him sound selfish, some were legitimate but would probably offend Ellen. So he just went with, "I'd come across as a hypocrite."

It took a moment for that to sink in. He pictured Ellen shaking her head as she then stated, "Hon, you can't be hunting. Not with your leg."

"Well," Ash started. Sam couldn't help imagining Garth and Ellen's heads turning towards him. "In the security footage, he ain't limping."

"He's not?" Garth asked incredulously at the same time Ellen, her tone accusative, said, "You told me that was some kinda illusion."

"I thought it was a shifter at first, too, but there's no eye flare," Ash replied defensively. "Sam? Why don't you clear it up for us?"

"I'm not limping," Sam said, after a nervous little swallow. "I don't limp anymore. It's healed - no scarring, no pain."

There was a short period of silence, which Sam determined to be shocked. He waited, a little afraid of what their reactions would be, especially once he went into more detail about what, exactly, had happened with his leg. Fingernails tapped against whatever surface Garth's phone was resting on, and Ellen finally asked, "How did that happen?"

That neutral tone was back in her voice. Sam recognized it from when he'd lived with her. She was mad, or expected to be mad, or wasn't sure how to feel, or didn't want to show what she was feeling. It could mean so many different things, but right now, Sam was pretty sure it was the second. She probably thought he' made some kind of deal. Delved into black magic. He would've liked to think she knew him well enough to be sure he'd never do anything like that, that the proper function of his left leg wasn't worth that much to him, but she wouldn't be able to think of any other explanation. Or maybe he just wasn't as moral in other people's eyes as he thought he was.

"Dea - the Knight," Sam replied, then tried to force humor he wasn't feeling into his voice as he added, "They can heal, apparently. Wish I'd known that when I wrote about them."

"And how'd you get it to do that for you?" Ellen asked him.

"Did you bind him somehow?" Garth eagerly butted in before Sam could reply. "Not sure how you'd go about binding a Knight of Hell, but I know you can sometimes make regular demons do stuff for you if you heap enough of the right kind of stuff on 'em - y'know, sigils, charms, spells. You can do that with other things, too."

"Uh, no. Definitely not." Sam had never tried to bind anything, least of all Dean, in the way that Garth was thinking of. He strongly discouraged it in his books and on his website, too. Demons, angels, reapers, ghosts, spirits, gods...they could technically all be harnessed, through one method or another, and forced to obey a human. No binding was perfect, though, and the thing always wound up slipping its collar. Much to the dismay of whoever'd been controlling it. "He just...y'know, did it for me."

"Why?" Ellen asked flatly, clearly done with all this beating around the bush.

Sam inhaled. "What have you heard?" That would probably be easiest. He could fill in the blanks, and correct anything that was wrong. "About everything. Not just me and the Knight."

"That you turned traitor." Ellen was the first to answer, quickly followed by Garth and Ash.

"That you killed Gordon Walker. Which, even if you did, I mean...good riddance. Am I right?"

"That the Knight mind-controlled you with sex."

With that, the floodgates more or less opened. They took turns recounting rumors they'd heard, occasionally correcting each other's memories. Some hit close to home; most were outrageous. At least Sam could hear in everyone's voices that they discounted ninety-nine percent of what they were repeating, but it still hurt to hear. Sam forced himself to sit through all of the secondhand abuse, though. He needed to know what people were saying about him.

He waited for Jo to return to the room, but it was coming up on half an hour since she'd left and he still hadn't heard the door reopen. Maybe he should see if Ellen wanted to go check up on her. But given the eagerness with which Ellen was throwing herself into this distraction and the force with which Jo had slammed the door, he doubted either one of them would take kindly to that.

"Some people seem to think you're possessed."

"I heard you'd killed other hunters, but of course nobody could offer up any names."

"Apparently, you've been in bed with the demons for years. Literally."

There was more. An e-mail with attached pictures of both Sam and Dean had been circulating; apparently, Ash had forwarded it to him, so he'd have to take a look at that. Few people had been around long enough to remember Dean Singer as a human, but those who'd recognized him had churned out all kinds of theories about his father Bobby's involvement - said he'd offered up his own son to the demons, pointed out his disappearance almost coincided with when shit had really started hitting the fan (it didn't. Not even close). Everyone must accept that Sam had taken the Knight as a lover, or vice versa, because the vocal minority had come barging in off the fringes to loudly draw connections between homosexuality, sin, and the forces of Hell. And on and on and on. Everyone knew, vaguely, what'd happened, and everyone had their own beliefs and opinions, because no one knew the full truth - though interest seemed to be slowly waning as time passed. It was a mess.

Actually, that was an understatement. It almost sounded like Sam had unwittingly sparked a civil war in the hunting community. Backing him, or at least not tearing him down, were most of the people who knew him personally. The ones who either outright rejected what they'd heard about him or were waiting patiently for his side of the story before making a judgement. On the other side was Gordon's crowd. The extremists, the zealots. The people who'd never seen the value in what Sam did, because he tried to find out more about monsters than just how to kill or hurt them.

There was a lot of tension between the two camps. To say the least. He just had to look at what'd happened to the Roadhouse for proof of that.

"Okay," Sam said carefully, once Ellen, Garth, and Ash's recounting had started to wind down. He laid back on the bed and rubbed his free hand over his eyes, grimacing and feeling overwhelmed. "First of all, at least one thing you've heard is true. Dean and I are..." He blushed, hard and involuntarily, as he tried to think of how best to put this. It would've been different if it'd just been Garth and Ash on the other end of the line, or even Jo. But Ellen was probably the last person he wanted to discuss his love life with. "...intimate."

That prompted a heavy sigh from Ellen, like Sam had just confirmed one of her worst fears.

"Sam, you've probably spent the most time with demons outta any of us," she stated. Her tone was nearly as careful as Sam had made his own. "Talking to them, I mean. Getting to know them. So I shouldn't have to tell you that they aren't capable of - of love. No matter what one tells you." She went on: "And calling it by the vessel's name is - "

"It's not the vessel's name, though," Sam interrupted, eager to make her understand. Especially because his relationship with Dean wasn't the important part. What'd really happened with Gordon, what Dean was going to help Sam do and how it would make life better for them all...that was what they needed to know. "I mean, it is, but it's the name off the soul inside, too. It's - his. They're the same."

"Okay, I'm confused," Garth announced.

"The Knight is Dean Singer," Sam explained, as simply as he could. "He found and repaired his original body after leaving the Pit. Ellen, you told me he disappeared back in eighty-seven, the last time we talked. He was murdered then and dragged to Hell, and they carved up his soul, but something must've gone wrong with the process. He's not...I don't think he counts as a full-fledged demon. He's got a lot of his original memories." He had even before Sam had pushed him into giving that memory-boosting spell a try. "And he's retained all of his human emotions. More or less. There are differences, but he's definitely not a psychopath. Not like most demons."

Ellen, of course, asked the obvious question: "How do you know?"

Sam bit the inside of his lower lip. Now he was sort of wishing he had asked Dean to stay and talk to them, like he'd reluctantly offered to. He was sure he'd be better at explaining who he was and how he felt than Sam would. But he wasn't here and Sam had no idea how to add him to his current call, or whatever. He was on his own.

He knew that talking about how Dean constantly made sure he was fed, watered, and well-rested, or what he said after sex, or how often he told him he loved him wouldn't be likely to convince them. They hadn't lived with him like Sam had, so they'd figure that he could say whatever the hell he wanted without having to mean a word of it. He'd have to use a more concrete example.

"Dean was hunted down and killed by demons because of what he was trying to do back then," Sam said, then swallowed. "Which was trying to close the Gates of Hell. Shut everything, all of them, back where they belong - forever. And he told me how it's done. Three Trials, all of which he's going to help me do...and which is also the whole reason he healed my leg for me."

There was silence for a long time, and Sam couldn't help feeling a little gratified by it. He knew that no one (with the exception of Dean, of course) had ever heard of anything like this, or even considered it. He knew he hadn't. It was a total game-changer. It would put an end to crossroads deals, for one thing, and even if it didn't automatically suck all the demons who were topside back into Hell when the Gates closed, it would at least prevent new ones from leaving and human souls from being claimed or stolen. The remaining demons could be hunted like normal. Since there'd be no getting back out of Hell, exorcising them would be as good as killing them.

Sam remembered his own shock when Dean told him. His disbelief. And then his excitement when he considered the fact that a world without demons, without Hell, might be possible. It was technically just one breed of monster - or a small handful, if you considered the different castes of demons, including hellhounds, to be their own creatures. But they were arguably some of the worst. Unlike most things, they didn't killed or ruined lives for fun, not food...and they just kept on coming back. Sam's knife and the few, highly-treasured angel blades the community had in its collective possession had made things a little better. But Hell, with the temptation of its deals constantly hanging over everyone's heads, just kept on churning out more demons.

"Um...Sam..." Garth had that special note in his voice that meant he knew what he wanted to say might wind up hurting somebody's feelings, but he really wanted to avoid that. "I know I don't have quite as much experience as some other people, but it seems to me that, when something seems too good to be true, it usually is."

"I know - trust me, I get that," Sam agreed, sitting back up. "And I know how this sounds. But it's not like it's a magic bullet. Two of the Trials are impossible unless you've got special knowledge and connections, and all three are - god, just  _grueling_. Really hard, really dangerous." He licked his lips. "That's why I'm gonna do a hunt or two before I get started. Hopefully lower the chance I'll get myself killed."

"Definitely not a bad idea, but...Sam, listen," Ellen said, earnestly. "I understand how you feel. How bad you want this, how good it'd be for all of us. And twenty-six is more than old enough for you to be thinking with your head rather than your heart or any other parts lower than that, so please believe me when I say I'm not questioning your...relationship." He noticed her hesitation over that last word. Almost definitely because of Dean's species. "But this is a demon. They're great actors, manipulative sons of bitches. They get off on hurt and chaos and destruction. And this one's a Knight of Hell - even though we all figured they were extinct, you did research on them. Wrote about them in your book."

"Which was smart," Garth chimed in, followed by something that a loud crackle on the line mostly obscured but which was probably, "Remember the whole vampire mess?"

"In that book, you say Knights are real heavy hitters," Ellen went on, apparently just ignoring Garth. "And that, above all, they're loyal. To their Prince or Lord, and to Hell in general."

Sam laughed. He couldn't help it.

"That's not something you have to worry about with Dean," he assured Ellen, shaking his head even though none of them would be able to see him doing it. "Hell hates him as much as any of us. More, probably, because he's a traitor. He's with me, he's killed demons they've sent to retrieve him, he hasn't checked in for months. He's gone off the reservation. His...Lord..." Sam hesitated. He really didn't know very much about this himself, and wasn't sure how much he could share with everybody else without violating Dean's privacy. Not that he'd probably ever find out what Sam told them. "I think its name is Alastair, but it's kinda weird, he almost makes it sound like he used to be shared around with another Lord and maybe a Prince, too. Lilith and Azazel." He shook his head again. "Anyway. My point is he hates all of them. Can't hardly talk about them, even."

"So you trust him," Ash summed up.

"Yes," Sam replied. It was easy because it was true.

"If your Knight really is Dean Singer..." Ellen started, then trailed off. "Well. When I knew him, he was somebody you could usually put your trust in. Good hunter. Magnet for trouble, though - didn't help he liked to go looking for it. I could definitely see him putting his own ass on the line to close the Gates of Hell."

"You said he was excited about something right before he disappeared," Sam prompted.

"That could've been it," Ellen agreed. "He'd - mellowed out some, too. Not sleeping around so much. Thought he might've finally found somebody he wanted to be exclusive with." A pause. "Sorry, Sam."

"You don't have to be," Sam replied. "Whatever it was, it's, uh... _clearly_   over now." Had that been the Prophet? The one who'd been able to read a Word of God (Sam still really wanted to know where, exactly, Dean had gotten one of those) and tell him about the Trials in the first place? He'd be in his forties by now, at least. If he wasn't dead.

"That was when he was human, though," Ellen said. "He hasn't hurt you, has he, Sam?"

"Uh, no. Exactly the opposite. I mean, look at my leg." Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose with the hand he wasn't using to hold the phone to his ear. He wasn't offended by the question. Considering it'd been one of Dean's original concerns, too. "He seemed really worried he might in the beginning, but that's more or less tapered off recently."

"Mm," Ellen said. Sam sighed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's a lot, asking you guys to trust somebody you've basically never met. A  _demon_  you've never met." He couldn't just ask them to take his word for it. Not after he'd let them worry about him all summer. "I really do trust him, though. And it's not like he told me he loved me once and I just let him out of his cell. I...it took a while, a lot of things happened, he - "

"Then how 'bout you tell us what happened?" Ellen interrupted patiently. "Everything. Help us understand." Then, bleakly, "Not like we've got anything better to do."

"Okay...I, uh..." Sam trailed off, overwhelmed by just how much he'd have to relate. It'd need to be heavily edited, too, since he didn't feel like sharing the details of the first few times he'd gone to bed with Dean with anyone. Especially not Ellen. He took a moment to gather his thoughts.

Speaking of Ellen, she took Sam's silence as an opportunity to address Garth. She must have turned away from the phone to talk to him, because her voice was quiet, but Sam heard her anyway. "Garth, you wanna go run and grab Jo real quick? It'll save Sam the trouble of repeating himself, since I know she'll wanna hear the whole story."

"Sure thing." Footsteps receded into the distance, and a door again opened and shut.

"So is he just...there all the time?" Sam asked, once he was reasonably sure Garth was out of earshot.

"Off and on," Ellen replied. "He's been a real big help. One of the first people to show up after the fire, too. Sweet kid."

Sam was about to agree wholeheartedly with that statement when Ash broke in: "I'm pretty sure most of it's 'cause he's carrying a torch for Jo."

"Oh," Sam said, trying to stifle his initial kneejerk reaction to that news. It wasn't a positive one. "Uh..."

"Yeah," Ash agreed. "That ain't going nowhere. 'Specially not if you've got anything to say about it, huh?" That last sentence was probably directed towards Ellen, who just grunted in response.

Sam really would've liked to know more about all of that. He'd been out of the loop of the Harvelles' day-to-day lives for so long, hadn't even seen them face-to-face in years, and it was just super weird to think of anybody being interested in Jo, let alone Garth. He couldn't help wondering if Ash thought she'd picked up on it or not. Plus, once again, it wasn't his business and he didn't have a right to know, but he was curious about why Ellen didn't approve, too. He knew she wasn't too keen on the idea of Jo winding up with a hunter. He'd been able to pick up on that much while living with them; Ellen's husband had been gone for more than a decade, and she was still grieving for him. Of course she didn't want that kind of pain for Jo. But Garth didn't fit anybody's definition of the average hunter.

He didn't even have time to think of a question, though, before the door opened again and Jo and Garth presumably returned. Two sets of footsteps crossed the floor, and the springs of a couch squeaked loudly as somebody flung themselves down onto it. Clearly, Jo was still upset about her earlier argument with her mother.

"Okay, Sam," Ellen said, voice neutral once again. "Go right ahead. Soon as you're ready."

"Right." Sam let out a long, slow breath. "Guess I might as well start with when Gordon first brought Dean up to me."

It was slow going. Sam had always been much better at putting stories down on paper than he was at telling them out loud, which was one of many reasons he kept a journal. He actually went and dug his current one out of his backpack after about twenty minutes of stumbling over major events and forgetting important details, because he could definitely use all the help he could get. Even balancing the journal on his knee and flipping through it with his free hand, he kept having to backtrack because he'd skipped over something that they all definitely needed to know.

Plus, he was having to edit on the fly. Take out all the sex and even pare down all the kisses and touches, because he was sure they didn't want to hear about it and he really didn't want to tell them. He elected to leave out a lot of the times Dean had threatened and/or actually hurt him, too. Since he was trying to convince them that Dean was trustworthy, that wouldn't exactly help his cause.

As hard as Sam was making this on himself, it wasn't like Garth, Ash, or the Harvelles were going easy on him, either. They were anything but a passive audience. They had all kinds of questions, they challenged his memory of certain events (never mind the fact that they hadn't actually been there), and interrupted him to give their own opinions or advice. Sam had forgotten that practically every important conversation at the Roadhouse had been like this. The greater the number of people involved, the worse it was.

In other words, relating what'd happened took forever and was a total pain in the ass. But it felt good anyway, even the parts that hurt to remember, like losing Vaughn and killing Gordon. Not only was he finally talking about all this, but he was doing it with family. People who, for all their questions, really did seem to understand.

Sam's throat was dry and his jaw ached by the time he got to what he'd been up to since leaving his cabin. His ear hurt, too, where he'd been holding the phone against it for the past couple of hours. Maybe it would've been more comfortable to use the room's phone (which was shaped like a mallard - was the wing the handset, or the head?), but it was too late for that now. He heard the rumble of an engine outside as he got up to get himself a much-needed drink of water.

"Oh," Sam said, switching the phone to his other ear. Which he probably should have done much earlier. "Dean's back. Hope the interviews went okay." He'd told them what he was doing, although not how nervous he'd been about it. "Uh...I really don't think there's much else I can tell you guys, so that was good timing. It's mostly just been a lot of training up 'til now." He filled a plastic cup, which matched the pillows on the bed, from the tap in the kitchenette. "Unless you'd like to talk to him?"

"That's all right." Ellen answered for all of them, and it was probably for the best, seeing as Dean clearly hadn't wanted to talk to them when Sam had asked him earlier. Raising the cup to his mouth to drain it in a few deep gulps, Sam turned halfway when the lock clicked and the door opened. Dean came in, jacket unbuttoned, tie untucked, and appearance just generally rumpled. He looked tired and irritated as he opened his mouth to say something, but he must have noticed that Sam was still on the phone, because he closed it again just as quickly. He shut the door and went to sit on the bed. Sam set the cup back on the counter.

"I'd kind of like to," Garth mumbled.

"We'd better let you go," Ellen said. Sam recognized the voice she used there because she'd turned it on him all the time in the past: it meant her word was law and that anybody who wanted to argue (usually him, sometimes Jo) was in for a rough day. "Really appreciate you checking, though, Sam. And filling in all the blanks...I gotta say, your Knight at least sounds like a stand-up guy. For a demon." Sam smiled, triumphant and relieved. "Good luck with your hunt - and...everything that's gonna come after." She paused, and Sam thought he heard her swallow. "We're all counting on you, so here's hoping you don't go AWOL for another four or five months after this."

"Fingers crossed, but, uh, no promises," Sam said with a faint smirk, then more seriously added, "I don't plan on it, Ellen. I'll try to call every week or two, at least."

"You'd better," Ellen replied. "Elsewise we'll track you down, now that Ash has your phone number."

Sam wanted to ask if Ash had managed to rescue any of his gear from the fire, but if he hadn't, he didn't want to reopen old wounds. "I'm so sorry about what happened to the Roadhouse. But I can't even tell you how happy I am that you're all okay."

"Well, us, too," Jo said. She'd been pretty quiet while he was talking, so it was a relief to hear her voice.

"We're all pretty glad to know you're alive, too," Garth said. "Not to mention working on our demon problem. And honeymooning with your soul mate!" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn't even bother correcting him.

"Be sure and call if you need anything. Talk to you soon." Somebody probably reached for the phone to end the call after that, but before they could cut it off, something jumped into Sam's mind.

"Wait," he blurted, then swallowed, suddenly worried about the answer to the question he wanted to ask. Even though he assumed that somebody would've already told him if it were really bad. "How's Charlie?"

"Oh, she's just fine, don't worry." Garth answered before anybody else could, and Sam could practically hear him waving a hand. "Working a new case, last I heard. Involving, um, exotic dancers, so that should be fun. You should really call her, too. She's been just as worried as us." Sam was about to promise to do so, just as soon as he rested his vocal cords some, but Garth remembered something before he could get the words out. "Buuut her main phones have been acting up lately. Dropping calls and stuff. She was going to get some new ones, so you might want to wait."

"Okay..." Sam paused. "So will you tell me her new numbers as soon as you get them?"

"Of course!" Garth responded immediately. "Silly."

"Well, thank you." There was another round of goodbyes, a couple of last-minute questions that nobody had had before, an more threats/promises to find him themselves if he didn't call. Then Sam was finally able to hang up.

"Hoo, boy," Dean commented as Sam lowered the phone from his ear and hit the button that would end the call. "Whichever one that was, they were sure long-winded, huh?"

"It was actually four of the five at once." Sam dropped the phone on one of the bedside tables, then went to sit beside Dean, the same position they'd been in earlier. He glanced at him just in time to see him grimace.

"Ouch. How'd that go?"

"Not anywhere near as bad as I thought it would," Sam admitted, then offered Dean a smile. "You were right."

"Usually am," Dean agreed. "What about this time?"

"They didn't hate me for what happened with Gordon," Sam replied. "Or you. Or not calling them all summer. Sure, they were worried, and a little mad, and it was kinda awkward at first, but...they listened. And once I finished explaining, I'm pretty sure they believed me."

"About what?"

Sam laid back on the bed and stretched, arching his back until his spine popped - an unfortunate side effect of having spent seven hours in a car manufactured before ergonomics were a thing. He folded his arms behind his head as a makeshift pillow when he was done. "You. That you're not hurting me or controlling me somehow. And closing the Gates of Hell."

Dean twisted in order to look down at Sam, eyebrows drawing in towards each other. "You told them about that?"

"Of course I did." Sam lifted his head slightly. "I figured you and me could probably use all the allies we can possibly get. Plus, like I said earlier, this is one of those things they deserve to know. I've kept enough from them since the last time they heard from me." He quirked an eyebrow, not really expecting trouble. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Dean laid down next to Sam, on his side so that he could look at him. Sam turned his head to return the favor, fighting back a faint smile as Dean brushed his hair away from his face (with his actual, physical hand, for once), being meticulous about every strand. "Might shock you to learn this, but I do remember what it was like to have a family. Granted, I usually followed the 'tell 'em as little as possible for their own good' model. Not that it worked all that well."

His eyes darkened slightly. In the normal, emotional way, not the demonic way. Sam knew he had to be thinking of his father, despite the fact that Bobby had disappeared nearly twenty years after Dean himself had. So Sam said, "If it makes any difference, I did follow that model when it came to all the times we've screwed."

Dean tried to stifle the loud, raucous laugh that that triggered, rolling over onto his other side, and it almost sounded like he was choking. Sam smirked. When he recovered, he asked, "How 'bout all the times we blew each other?"

"Well, obviously,  _those_ , I described in detail," Sam replied. "To my, uh...mother figure, surrogate siblings, and  _painfully_ innocent best friend."

There was more laughter from Dean, which came out sounding more like snorting. When he finished, he was quiet for a while, then moved onto his back and unexpectedly asked, "So they're okay with you trying to close the Gates, huh?"

Sam's first instinct was to petulantly point out that he was an adult. He didn't go with it. "Far as I could tell. It might've been different, but I told them I was doing a practice hunt or two first. And they knew what you did to my leg." He lifted it a little to punctuate the statement. "They're still not totally sold on it working, but if it does, it'll solve a major problem for just about everybody."

"Well, that's good," Dean commented. He folded his hands on his stomach. "You're definitely gonna have to call 'em more often from now on."

"I said once a week, at least. That shouldn't be too hard to keep up." Sam couldn't see much of Dean's face over his own elbow.

"You said you knocked four of five outta the park at once," Dean said. "How 'bout the last one?"

"She's having phone trouble, so I'm gonna have to wait," Sam replied, unfolding his arms, shifting onto his side, and supporting his head with one hand so he could look down at Dean. The bed squealed, apparently not happy with all that movement. He was dreading the noises it might make if they had sex on top of it. "And I'm pretty sure that  _you're_  stalling. Why don't you tell me how interviewing potential witnesses went?" Even if it'd gone well, it must've been rough: Dean looked like figurative hell.

Dean shut his eyes and groaned loudly. Sam coaxed, "C'mon, you looked pretty excited to tell me when you first came in."

"Yeah, but you did so good with your thing, and I..." Dean trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face and keeping his eyes closed.

"It can't be that bad."

"Guess it wasn't." Dean left his hand on the side of his face and cracked open the eye that wasn't covered. "I didn't kill anybody. Or flash my eyes, or teleport, or move anything with my mind." The green eye rolled up as he paused and considered. "I  _did_  threaten to twist off the cemetery caretaker's fingers, but he was being a dick to me, and c'mon. Who the hell's drunk at one in the afternoon?"

"I'm gonna assume you found him in a bar, so...was it crowded?" Sam asked. It could've been worse, so he didn't think a slap on the wrist was in order.

"One in the afternoon," Dean repeated. "Nobody heard me, don't worry. And it was useless, anyway. Even once I scared him sober, he couldn't tell me anything. Hasn't seen anything. Which might be because he's trashed all the time, but nothing we can do about that."

Sam, having had his own experiences with chronic alcoholism, grunted in agreement, then asked, "How about everyone else?"

"They didn't give me much, either," Dean replied. "Funeral home's not directly involved with the cemetery, but they are pissed 'cause the graverobbing's hurting business. And the cops are frustrated 'cause people keep calling the sheriff, but they never find anything."

"What kind of calls have they been getting?" Sam asked patiently. Dean occasionally fell into the habit of talking like Sam could at least partially read his mind. It made him wonder how demons communicated when they were among their own kind and how much of it was telepathic or some sort of hive-mind thing, but it somehow never seemed appropriate to ask.

"Well, the open graves, obviously," Dean said. "And stuff going on at night. They used to think it was kids breaking in to drink and bone, even staked the place out a few times, but kids don't tend to dig up and steal a couple dozen corpses." He smirked with the visible half of his mouth. "Not human kids, at least."

"Yeah, couple dozen's a lot even for a really grisly prank," Sam agreed. He noticed Dean's smirk, assumed it was because he'd used a weird word, and didn't deign to comment on it. "Anything else?"

"Yep," Dean replied, finally taking his hand away and nodding as best he could while laying down. "Intruders in the graveyard. Intruders all witnesses agree should be dead and gone."

"Okay. So it's  _definitely_  ghouls," Sam stated, privately wondering why Dean hadn't just led with that part. "Could be ghosts, but they wouldn't be snatching bodies. Did you go and talk to the people who saw these, uh, intruders?"

Dean glared up at him, almost balefully. Sam guessed that that was a no. He was about to ask him what his problem was when Dean said, "Getting any info at all outta these people is like pulling teeth. It's always the same in small towns. And these're professionals, elected officials - civvies are gonna be even worse." He put a forearm over his eyes. "Pretending to be human, or at least not to be my full self, ain't much easier."

"Want me to do them?" Sam asked, pulling himself back up into a sitting position. He folded his legs and put his hands on his knees, still looking down at Dean. "I mean, it'd only be fair. I could put the suit on and slick my hair back..." Because a ponytail was really more practical than professional. "...and go out later today or tomorrow."

"You really think they're gonna be able to tell us much we don't know already?" Dean removed his arm. Sam shrugged.

"It'd be nice to get a rough idea of the numbers."

"I'd bet it's at least one whole mischief."

Sam squinted at Dean, who just grinned back. After a while, though, he let it go. He patted Sam's leg before sitting up himself.

"We'll go together," he said. "We're partners, after all. This evening, everybody'll be home from work, so we'll leave then." He looked away, running the tip of his tongue absentmindedly along his plump, pink bottom lip. Watching that ignited a sudden, magma-hot need in the pit of Sam's belly and at the base of his spine, like a banked fire bursting back to life with a gust of wind. "That'll give us some downtime. You and me both did good today. We deserve a break."

"A break from acting human?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him, then smirked, obviously having either seen or felt his arousal - although he didn't seem to be as good at picking up on that feeling as he was most others. Sam was already leaning forward to pull his suit jacket off him as he allowed, "Maybe not too much of one."


	5. Chapter 5

_It's just always such a pain in the ass. Every single time. I understand they're green, and yeah, I remember being new to the game, like ~~Bobby~~ ~~Dad~~  Bobby is always riding me about. But I was around twelve on my first hunt, and I don't remember being a total moron. These idiots don't have the excuse of being kids, and common sense doesn't have anything to do with hunting experience._

_You know I like hunting with partners but I know I'd rather be solo than working a case with one of these two hundred pound babies hanging off me the whole time. Or, God forbid, more than one. Why the hell do so many people feel the need to drag their whole goddamn bowling league or whatever into the life with them? This is a lifelong commitment, and it's about saving people and stamping out evil. You aren't going to a concert. Don't bring your friends._

_They're stupid, they're clumsy, and they got no idea what they're doing. You'd think most of them had never held a gun before, or watched a single horror movie. Their technique's all wrong. They don't ask witnesses the right questions. When it's the perfect time to shoot or stab or whatever, they freeze up. Can't even count how many times baby hunters have almost gotten me killed. Or actually gotten their genius friends killed. Then it's my fault, of course._

_Look. New hunters. The only reason I'm in your area in the first place is to clean up your mess. I'm not here to teach you - I don't have the time. I'm not here to hold your hand while you cry about your buddy getting eaten 'cause you just couldn't handle killing something, even a monster. And I'm definitely not here to babysit you. That's not my job._

_-Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1982_

* * *

Sam didn't like suits. Of course, he hadn't had to wear one for the better part of a decade, so he'd more or less forgotten just how much he disliked them. He remembered, though, when he put one on and left the motel room with Dean around five o'clock, so they could make the rounds and interview civilian witnesses.

A suit was one of the things Dean had insisted he get before they started hunting, along with a core group of fake IDs. Sam got it: people were a hell of a lot more likely to take you seriously when you were in a jacket and tie. That was why real FBI agents did it.

But,  _jeez_ , were they ever uncomfortable. Sam's fit him okay; it'd come off a rack, so it wasn't like it was tailored or anything, but at least his wrists and ankles were covered. The fabric was cheap, though (the rack had been at Kohl's, not an Armani store. Neither he nor Dean had seen the point in dropping fifteen hundred dollars on suits they were probably going to get blood on, and they'd gotten what they paid for). Restrictive. The seams pulled like the stitches were going to pop when he moved his arms, and the jacket went tight across his upper back. The trousers dug painful bands into his thighs where they met his hips whenever he sat. It wasn't nearly as forgiving of movement as denim. And he got that you shouldn't be able to run a marathon in a suit, but seriously. He ought to at least be able to sit comfortably.

Plus, there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his armpit the entire time they were doing interviews. And he couldn't exactly go digging for the source while asking townsfolk about mysterious figures in the graveyard. He was trying to project an air of professionalism, and they were already unimpressed by his FBI badge. So it wasn't until Sam finally, gladly got to take his suit off, back in the room, that he found out it was a straight pin in his white button down.

"I thought you washed these," he said to Dean, massaging his armpit with one hand and holding the pin in the other. He didn't think he was bleeding, but he was definitely sore.

"I did," Dean replied, so easily that Sam couldn't challenge him on it. "Hey." His jacket was open, and he loosened his tie as he flashed a smile at Sam. "Wanna see a trick?"

"Uh..." Sam was immediately wary as he flicked the pin into the room's wastebasket. "I don't know. Do I?"

"You'll like this," Dean assured him, and then teleported out of his clothes. All of them, including his boxers. The suit hung in the air for half a second, then after Sam blinked, it'd crumpled softly to the floor. Dean stood in front of him, hands spread, eyebrows bouncing, a smirk on his face. Sam couldn't help laughing, even though the suit, the pin, and the impending graveyard trek had him feeling a little prickly.

"Okay," he agreed. "That's pretty good."

"'Pretty good'?" Dean parroted, exaggeratedly offended. "D'you have any idea how much  _practice_ it takes to do that? And control? You gotta have a complete grasp of your vessel, and know exactly where it ends. You're not gonna see garden-variety blackeyes using teleportation to get naked."

Sam stepped on the back of one dress shoe, then the other, slipping both of his feet out of them as he walked over to his backpack where it was leaning up against the foot of the bed. When he reached it, he squinted at Dean, lifting it onto the bed and unzipping the largest compartment.

"Was that some kind of demon racial slur?" he asked him.

"What?"

Sam let it go, shaking his head. "Never mind." He began digging through his backpack, looking for the sturdiest pair of jeans he had. He hoped that he'd brought them with him - this wasn't all his clothes. Some had been abandoned at Bobby's old place when Dean had made him pick and choose because they didn't have room for everything, even though Sam wasn't exactly a clotheshorse. Just another of the million small inconveniences of life on the road. Dean had helped him neatly fold everything he'd decided to leave behind and put it all away in the chest of drawers in the room that'd belonged to both of them, at separate times. It'd even been his idea. Sam knew, though, that they'd never be coming back for them. Hell probably knew they were both connected to that place. It wouldn't be safe.

Sam was standing in his sock feet, shirtless, only his belt and slacks still on as he rooted through his tightly-folded clothes. He was proud of himself for not jumping when Dean's hands, cold, came down on either side of his waist. He hadn't heard him walk across the crunchy green carpet, so he must've teleported again.

"Y'know, it might not be totally accurate to call it teleporting," Sam commented, ignoring that Dean was touching him and thinking out loud. "You don't leave an empty space behind, because there's no thunderclap. And you don't displace any air when you arrive." He finally found the jeans that he was looking for, taking the compact roll of them out and setting it aside. "So it's more like you're switching places with the air in the spot you want to go."

Dean groaned loudly and let go of him, shoving him slightly as he did so. "God, you are such a  _nerd_."

Sam grinned at him as he went to his duffel bag, which was sitting on the table. "I need to edit my demon book."

"I can't believe I allowed you inside my body," Dean stated, eyeing Sam disgustedly as he tugged out a pair of underwear. The forest green ones - Sam liked those. He'd bought them for him. "You killed my boner. Hope you're happy."

"You didn't even have a boner." It wasn't like it was easy to miss. "And we had sex, like..." Sam glanced at the clock. It had game birds on it rather than numbers (and the arms were hunting rifles - cute), so it took him a second to decode it. "...four hours ago."

"Yeah, well." Dean stepped into the boxer briefs, pulling them up around his hips. "I could've used another round." He gave Sam a sidelong glance, finally looking serious.

Sam took a moment to undo his belt and pull his pants off, swapping them out for his jeans. He left them crumpled on the floor, just like he had with the rest of his suit, because he just didn't feel like dealing with it right now. As he was doing up his zipper, he glanced from it to Dean, asking him, "Are you nervous?"

"Yeah." Sam hadn't expected him to admit it so easily; he was surprised.

"Well, don't be." He dove back into his backpack, looking for shirts now. "It's just ghouls. They die easy, and they're not all that much stronger or smarter than us." He pulled a T-shirt free, dropped it on the bed. "We might not even need to kill the whole mischief. Just thin the herd, or take out the problem members...hey, I might actually get to go to bed tonight." He could literally feel himself brightening at that realization.

"I'm not worried about that," Dean replied. "I could clear ghouls out of a graveyard in my sleep. Even though I don't sleep." Sam glanced over at him to see that he was almost dressed. "I'm worried about you."

"Oh. Wow." Sam raised both eyebrows, not quite offended but faking that he was. "That's not insulting at all."

"You know I don't mean it like that," Dean complained. "I'm worried about you getting hurt, not screwing up."

"I've had a lot of practice with you," Sam pointed out. "I know I can defend myself." That was true, but it didn't mean that he wasn't scared. "Plus, I did have close to a solid decade of hunting before...y'know. All that's been coming back to me." He was still digging through his backpack, wishing he'd taken more time to organize everything after their last laundry day rather than just folding it and then shoving it all in, but now he looked up at Dean and smiled. "And I don't think I can get much safer than having a Knight of Hell as my own personal bodyguard."

"You shouldn't depend on me to protect you," Dean warned. "I mean, trust me, I'm gonna do my damnedest, but there are gonna be times where we'll have to split up."

"I know that," Sam said, feeling, for about the billionth time, like Dean was ignoring the fact he used to be a hunter. Although he really hoped they didn't have to split up tonight. "And I'm not. We're partners, I get that, and I've got your back just as much as you've got mine." He'd definitely try, at least, despite the vast gulf between their abilities. "I can kill my own monsters."

"So you're not anxious about this at all?" Dean asked. He'd sunk down in one of the chairs next to the table, dug a pair of socks out of his duffel bag, and summoned his boots to him from across the room.

"No," Sam lied. He knew it was useless with Dean. He lied anyway.

"All right, then." Pulling on his socks, Dean laughed. "God, Sammy. You're making me feel like an overprotective parent."

Sam resisted the urge to dryly comment that that would've killed  _his_ boner, if he'd had one. "I gotta start sometime."

"You're right," Dean agreed. "At least hunting'll be easier than those interviews we just did."

Sam laughed, which he was pretty sure had been Dean's goal every time he'd done something goofy tonight: to help him relax. "Right? The ghouls probably aren't gonna  _pet_ their damn shotguns the whole time we're talking to them."

"What was that guy's problem, anyway? Did he just keep that thing next to the door to intimidate visitors, or what?"

"I don't even...it's Montana. I don't know."

They were quiet for a little bit as they both finished getting dressed. Sam's bare chest was getting cold, so he gave up searching his backpack for the moment and just pulled the T-shirt on.

"Think I should go wash my hair real quick?" he asked Dean. He'd forgotten he had hardened gel in it, slicking it back, until he accidentally touched it while putting on his shirt. "Like, just in the sink. To get the gunk out."

"No," Dean said, shaking his head as he rocked himself up onto his feet. "Leave it. It'll be harder for them to grab onto it that way."

"All right." Sam guessed that was a good enough reason for him to put up with it for the duration of the hunt. Though, honestly, he hated gel as much as he did suits.

"Dress in layers," Dean advised him, patting his shoulder as he walked past him on his way to the door. "So that - "

"Yeah, I know," Sam interrupted, putting a hand into his backpack again and, just by chance, finding the thing he'd been looking for earlier: a flannel. He pulled it out and shook it free of the tight roll that it'd been packed into. "It's like armor."

"Well, yeah," Dean agreed. "But also, it's November in Montana and we're gonna be spending the night in a graveyard. Don't want all your squishy bits to freeze."

"Okay." Sam shrugged into the flannel, then a jacket as Dean went out to the car. He returned with a machete, which he handed to Sam so he could see his decapitation swing. He'd already practiced it enough to make his shoulder sore, back when they'd still been training rather than actively hunting, but he figured that this was just one last thing to satisfy Dean. So he humored him. And he must've done okay, because after he'd mimed taking a ghoul's head off a couple times, Dean decided they could go.

"You know the best place to do a ghoul hunt?" Dean asked as they drove out to the cemetery.

"No," Sam admitted, after thinking about it for a second.

"New Orleans," Dean told him. "All the mausoleums and crypts and family vaults - they nest in there. And those places are easy for us to go into. Easier than the tunnels they dig themselves, at least...which is what we're gonna be dealing with here." He glanced at Sam, who sighed through his nose.

"Crap," he said. "I didn't even think about the tunnels." He shrugged at Dean, who was focused on parking. Down by the canal that ran past the cemetery rather than the parking lot, so they wouldn't be noticed. "Fingers crossed that they're prowling around on the surface tonight."

"Welp, they've been going into the graves from above." Dean yanked the keys out of the ignition. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

They climbed out of the car, each with a machete in his hand. It'd been years since Sam had held one (outside of training with Dean), and it almost felt too light to him. He glanced up at the sky as Dean locked the car. It was a new moon, and he wished that they could've done this on a brighter night. He was about to say that, but when he looked over at Dean, he found him standing ramrod-straight and staring into the cemetery.

"What is it?" he asked him.

"I heard something," Dean replied.

"What?"

"C'mon," Dean said, leaving the car and heading for the fence like Sam hadn't asked a question. "Let's go."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he couldn't really do anything but follow him. They went up the road and through the trees, to the fence. Chain link, rather than the more standard wrought iron. Dean didn't slow down at all when they reached it, just grabbed Sam's free hand and teleported past it without even breaking his stride. Sam, though, stumbled, thrown off. That allowed Dean, who'd picked up the speed to a quick lope, to get a decent head start on him.

Sam did his best to catch up, but couldn't quite manage it. His night vision wasn't anywhere near as good as Dean's, so he couldn't match his pace without tripping over every headstone in the damn place. The ones that laid flat against the ground especially were a pain in his ass. And just because all that wasn't hard enough on its own, the cemetery had been laid out over several hills, and they were currently going up one of them.

Sam had a flashlight in his back pocket that he could've taken out and turned on. He also could have yelled at Dean to wait up. If he'd heard ghouls, though, he didn't want to do either for fear of tipping them off.

Dean slowed some as he came close to the top of the hill, and Sam was finally able to catch up with him. Now he could hear things, too: laughter, voices, the popping and ringing of aluminum cans being crumpled. And there was an orange glow coming up as they crested the hill, firelight flickering on the backs of headstones and statues. Sam felt his eyebrows automatically drawing together. He couldn't see ghouls having some sort of bonfire party in the middle of a cemetery, even ones brazen and desperate enough to dig up graves and leave the mess for humans to find (and now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure any of the holes they'd made had been filled - good thing he hadn't fallen in one). Plus...

"D'you smell pot?" he asked Dean, who grunted in response.

They'd both slowed to a brisk walk, winding around the last few grave markers on top of the hill, and then they were looking down on a pack of teenagers. Definitely human ones, not ghouls. They were way too clean to be ghouls. There were no open graves, no withered corpse-pieces - just cans of beer, most of them empty, and buckets of half-eaten chicken. And at least one blunt, being passed back and forth between the guys sitting on headstones around the fire and the giggling girls that most of them had on their laps. This must be the local high school's out-crowd: out of nearly a dozen kids, only one was wearing cowboy boots.

It took long enough for them to notice the strangers standing over them; the crossfading probably had a lot to do with that. Sam was just about to clear his throat when one of the girls, her sideswept hair too matte-black to be anything but dyed, glanced up at the two of them. She tried to shriek but sucked air in instead of blowing it out. She fell off her boyfriend's lap and hit the ground hard enough to force that air back out in a grunt. Her head just barely missed the corner of the nearest grave marker, much to Sam's relief. That could've been bad.

"What the hell?" Her boyfriend - Sam was assuming, at least - scrambled to his feet, obviously and aimlessly angry. He wobbled, but managed not to lose his balance. "What the hell, man? Who the fuck are you?"

"Cops?" one of the others - this one without a girl - said, halfway between an answer and a question. The kid who'd stood up still had the smoldering joint tucked between the fingers of one hand, and his nearest neighbor grabbed it. His girlfriend snatched it away from him before he could put it to his lips, stubbing it out on the robes of the stone angel whose pedestal they were sitting on with a warning look.

"They ain't cops, dumbass," a wearing a ballcap said with a snort, shoving the kid who'd originally suggested it. "They came to my house. My dad said they ain't cops."

"Was he the gun guy?" Dean ask"ed.

"What?"

"Shit, Tucker, wished you'da said that before Audrey killed our roach," complained the kid sitting on the angel. The girl on his lap slapped his chest, really more of a pat.

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Well." Dean interrupted them, the twang in his voice growing heavier. They obviously hadn't noticed the machete yet, and he didn't seem eager for them to, slipping it into his belt at the small of his back. Sam followed his lead. "Guess this place is even more Mayberry than I thought, if the local rejects can't find a better place to get high than the boneyard."

"More  _what_?" one of the girls asked, confused. The kid who was already standing - and not helping up his still-stunned girlfriend - puffed himself up.

"Hey," he said. "What's your problem, anyway? We're not hurting anybody."

"Pretty sure the guy whose grave you built the world's shittiest fire on top of would disagree." Dean stamped a booted foot twice, indicating the bodies underneath them. "And all the people whose headstones you've got your asses all over. Don't you have any respect for the dead?"

A couple of the kids shifted uncomfortably, like it hadn't occurred to them that they were sitting above dead bodies, but the one arguing with Dean was unmoved.

"And what're you doing here?" he challenged. "You two queers get off on doing it in a graveyard?"

That got a laugh from his friends, and Sam was very nearly empathetic for a moment: he could feel Dean's mild irritation sharpening into something harder. Never mind that this kid couldn't possibly know they really were a couple. It was still a slur, still an excuse to start a fight. He'd better step in.

"You kids should leave," Sam said quietly, after clearing his throat to draw their attention. He felt ridiculous saying "you kids," like he was pretending to be a lot older than he was, but maybe that wasn't a bad thing. His fake badge wouldn't have much clout here.

"Hey, Lurch talks!" the one in the baseball cap exclaimed. There was another laugh.

"You kidding me?" Dean mumbled to Sam. "They know Lurch, but they don't get Mayberry?" Sam shrugged, not sure what to tell him.

"Hey. Hey. Homos." Still standing up, Dean's new friend forced them to focus on him again. He must've picked up on a little bit of Dean's reaction when he called them queers. "Look. How much longer are we gonna have to put up with you guys? Don't know if you noticed, but we're trying to have a good time here."

For some reason, he tried to take a bow after that, very nearly overbalancing and faceplanting into the fire. His friends didn't seem to notice, because they cheered anyway. His girlfriend, meanwhile, finally got up, hauling herself shakily to her feet and then taking his spot on the headstone. Maybe she'd been waiting for him to help her up.

"Oh, yeah, looks like a regular party up in here," Dean agreed. "Smoking joints and eating KFC with dead folks - doesn't get much better than that. But you're gonna have to take it somewhere else, 'cause I'm pretty sure my  _partner_  here - " He placed special emphasis on the word "partner" as he jabbed a thumb at Sam. " - told you to scram. All sorts of nasty things could happen to you in a graveyard at night."

"Uh, wow. I'd tell you to suck my dick," the kid said, pointing at his crotch with both index fingers, "but I'm worried you might enjoy that." More stoned laughter. "So how 'bout you kiss my ass, old man, 'cause we ain't going nowhere."

"Yeah, okay." Dean was smiling now, and Sam could see it out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't at all a pleasant expression, and even seemed to be making the kids uncomfortable. Sam drew in a deep breath, smelling marijuana and wood smoke. "Let's try this again."

He stepped forward, plucking his machete out of his belt with his fingertips as he did so. Sam grabbed for him, Dean's name in his throat, but he missed and everything happened too fast for him to stop him another way. Sam heard his eyes change, he brandished the machete, and then he teleported across the fire so he was standing right in front of the kid who'd just told him to kiss his ass. His voice was - well,  _demonic,_ halfway between a hiss and a growl, as he snarled right into his face:  _"Leave."_

They all screamed bloody murder, of course. Especially Dean's chosen victim. He didn't scream like a girl, at least: the sound that came out of him was actually pretty deep, kind of a groan of mortal terror. But he did knock his girlfriend off her headstone when he bolted, spurring the rest of his friends to scatter in all direction and leave everything behind. Going off the way his girlfriend fell, Dean gave her a few telekinetic nudges to make sure she didn't bash her brains in or break her back. If she was aware of that, though, she didn't show it. Just scrambled very clumsily to her feet, skinning both knees bloody in the process, and took off down the hill. It took a second for Sam to make sense of what she was yelling, with all the tears and panic. A name, presumably her boyfriend's.

"'Royal'?" Dean repeated with a snort. "Wow." He turned to face Sam, then cocked his head at him. He hadn't switched his eyes back to normal, so the firelight reflected in the liquid black made for an eerie effect. "What?"

"You are  _such_ a jerk sometimes," Sam replied, having folded his arms disapprovingly over his chest while the teenagers were running and screaming. He sure hoped that no one who lived nearby had heard that. They probably would've called the real cops to come and investigate if they had.

"I didn't see you trying to stop me," Dean pointed out. "Don't be a little bitch." He waved a hand at the fire and it went out. Completely out. No glowing embers, not even a puff of smoke. Sam blinked and widened his eyes, totally night-blind after having a bright light source in front of him for the last fifteen minutes.

"Can I get my flashlight out?" he asked, putting a hand on the head where it was sticking out of his back pocket. "Or are we trying not to let the ghouls know we're here?"

"Dude, you can get a floodlight out if you want," Dean replied. "Pretty sure every ghoul from here to Calgary knows we're here by now."

So Sam pulled his flashlight out and turned it on. He accidentally aimed the beam right at Dean's face, and he winced and put a hand up, the black shrinking into his pupils.

"Sam. C'mon."

"Sorry." Sam dropped the beam and they got moving again. He made a face as they picked their way through all the stuff the kids had abandoned, a mixture of garbage and personal belongings. Beer cans, jackets, chicken bones, hats... "Ugh. Look at all this crap."

"Leave it - that asshole caretaker deserves a mess to clean up," Dean told him. "Unless..." He bent in order to pick something up. "You want a new phone?"

"No. I just got a new phone, remember?"

"You sure?" Dean shook it enticingly. "It's a BlackBerry."

"Then I definitely don't want it." Sam stepped on something soft and pointed his flashlight down at it. "You want a...shockingly-large Ziploc bag of pot?"

"No." Dean was still holding his machete in the ready position from where he'd used it to menace the kids. "Never liked it all that much to begin with, and it definitely doesn't affect me anymore."

They moved down the side of the hill, looking for tunnels and checking graves for signs they'd been messed with. They didn't find anything right away, and Sam eventually let out a chuckle he'd been holding in for a while now. Dean turned to look at him, and he saw that his eyes were back to black.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, keeping his voice soft just in case. "It's just that you scaring the crap outta those kids was kind of hilarious."

"Really?" Dean asked with a grin. "I'd've thought you'd be on me for going over the top."

"Well, it's not like you hurt any of them - and they really were a bunch of douchebags," Sam pointed out. "Plus. We needed them gone."

"Yeah, nothing like spending the whole damn night tripping over a pack of stoners," Dean agreed.

"That, and we've got ghouls who don't have a problem with digging up graves and leaving them open in broad daylight," Sam said. "Unarmed kids, drunk and high, alone on their home turf at night...fresh meat. Might be too much for them to resist."

"That's all we need," Dean said. "A body count where the bodies didn't start off dead in the first place." He tossed his machete into the air with a flick of his wrist, catching it easily by the handle. "I'm gonna level with you, though, Sammy: I was not thinking about saving them from ghouls when I chased 'em off."

Sam laughed. "I know." Pausing beside a grave that looked oddly sunken and trying to figure out if the coffin had been stolen or just collapsed, he commented, "As long as we're leveling, I was kinda rooting for Royal to step in a gopher hole and break his ankle."

"There are a lot of gophers around here." Standing on the other side of the grave, Dean grinned at Sam again. "Wonder what kinda  _relationship_  the ghouls've got with them."

"Shut up - I'm gonna make you read the book." Sam turned away and struck out across the graveyard, reaching the bottom of the hill. He heard Dean laugh and start to follow him - and then dry earth crunched loudly, grass ripped, rocks bounced off each other. The ground rumbled a little as Sam whirled around to see that the sunken grave had caved in, creating what looked like a bottomless pit from here.

He knew it shouldn't be anywhere near his mind, but his hair was  _really_ bothering him. One of those weird panic thoughts. It didn't swing like it was supposed to when he turned, held stiff by the gel. It was tight and hard and uncomfortable against his scalp.

"Dean?" he demanded, walking fast towards the grave.

"Right here." Sam swung his flashlight in the direction of the voice, found Dean standing off to the side. He must've teleported out of the way when the ground disappeared under his feet. He strolled back over to the pit as Sam relaxed. The two of them looked down into it together, being careful of the edge. Sam shone his light down into it. It dropped down eight, maybe nine feet, with the ragged mouth of a tunnel opening on either side. There wasn't much debris at the bottom, so there must have only been a thin crust of soil covering the empty grave. "Well. Guess we found their tunnels."

Sam looked at Dean, who shook his head like he was answering a question that hadn't been asked yet. "I'm not going in there," he said adamantly.

"We have to," Sam told him. "You said so yourself, in the car. They're obviously not aboveground tonight, which means that we're gonna need to - "

Dean suddenly put a hand over Sam's mouth, cutting him off. Irritated, Sam seriously considered biting him.

"Shh." Dean's voice was below a whisper. Sam had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. "Something's coming."

Sam reflexively switched off his flashlight. When Dean took his hand away, he matched his register. "Those kids again?"

Dean shook his head. Turning away from Sam and placing his boots very carefully to keep from making too much noise, he scanned the landscape around them. Sam stayed close. He put away his flashlight for the moment and took out his machete, which he'd just left in his belt after the run-in with the teenagers. He leaned in to murmur directly into Dean's ear: "This better not be an excuse just to keep you out of the tunnels."

Dean's head began to turn towards him, and he might've answered, but a hand grabbed Sam's ankle before he could. The ankle on what he still unconsciously thought of as his bad leg. He gasped, and was vaguely proud he didn't scream. At the same time, the hand tightened. Tendons creaked and bones ground together. Then his foot was yanked out from under him.

His knees stung when they hit the ground, and he grunted. He saw Dean move towards him, heard him curse under his breath, and then a dark figure rushed him. He teleported out of its way, but the ghoul changed directions and managed to grab him this time, and they were grappling among the headstones. Dirt shifted as, all around them, heads and hands popped out of the ground like toadstools after a heavy rain. Ghouls in filth-streaked clothes that'd obviously been taken off corpses hauled themselves up into the night.

Sam twisted as the hand on him tightened to the point where his foot's blood supply was cut off. A ghoul in a ripped suit, still buried from the waist down, grinned at him. It looked like an old man, which made sense - in a town like this, most of the dead would be elderly. The grin dropped away when Sam whipped his machete through its wrist. Dark blood spurted from both stumps, and the ghoul howled and clutched its forearm as Sam scrambled away from it. Probably getting grave dirt all over the ass of his jeans.

He forced himself up as fast as possible and hopped backwards on one foot, barely avoiding the ghouls closing in as he frantically shook his leg until the severed hand on his ankle finally let go and went spinning away over the nearest row of grave markers.

He put his foot down and found that he was right next to Dean. Who already had a few kills under his belt, judging by the decapitated bodies on the ground beside him. Sam couldn't help feeling a little inadequate.

Stance predatory and machete slick with syrupy blood, Dean grinned at the ghouls, who'd stopped advancing for the moment. There were at least a dozen of them (Sam couldn't tell for sure, since a lot were wearing black and he still couldn't see in the dark), and they were muttering amongst themselves.

"Those aren't hunters."

"What else could they be?"

"The one's human. I can smell it on him."

"Well,  _that_ one's  _not_. Just look at his eyes. And he - blinked out or something when Waste tried to tackle him."

Dean laughed, loudly, and Sam realized that he was enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself. At least these were ghouls and not highschoolers.

"C'mon," he coaxed. "Who's next?" He twirled the machete, sending drops of blood flying in all directions. A wave of disgust rolled through Sam when one hit his cheek, and Dean must have felt it, because he squinted the tiniest bit in apology. "Don't keep me waiting, now."

The ghouls had fallen silent when Dean started talking. They stayed that way now, though one of them growled.

"No volunteers?" Dean asked, feigning disappointment. "That's too bad. Guess we're gonna have to do this the hard way."

He thrust a hand in the direction of the nearest ghoul, palm out, then closed it into a fist and dragged it back towards himself. The ghoul came with it, struggling and shrieking as it was hauled rapidly over the ground. Dean swung as soon as it was in range, taking the head cleanly off the shoulders. Cleanly except for the fountain of blood, of course.

Sam was actually a little surprised that the ghouls didn't just cut and run after that, but they must feel like they had to defend their territory. Also, they did have an advantage in terms of numbers. They might figure there was nothing wrong with sacrificing members of their mischief until Sam and Dean were overwhelmed. And, really, that seemed to be their strategy.

He and Dean fought back to back as the ghouls rushed them. There were even more than Sam had initially thought - they just kept popping up out of the ground and coming out from behind monuments and headstones. This had to be why they were raiding graves so sloppily. There were too many for them to feed traditionally. And as Sam hacked and slashed, forcing the ghouls back with blows to their chests and going for their heads and necks when they came again, he couldn't help noticing how bad of shape they were all in. Blotchy skin, teeth rotten and missing, a sick, corrupted smell coming off all of them. They were close enough that he could see all their various wounds and illnesses even without his flashlight, and he knew it wasn't just the forms they'd taken on or their diet.

Sam knew what a healthy ghoul was supposed to look like. His - Mourner - had not only been in its prime, it'd eaten fresh meat every day. These definitely didn't look anything like Mourner. Maybe that was why they were so easy to kill.

Dean was definitely doing the best because of his strength, speed, and reflexes. He wasn't teleporting, which Sam appreciated, wanting him to stay as close as possible. He didn't seem to be using much telekinesis, either. He was laughing, though, loud, ecstatic whoops, and while Sam couldn't risk glancing over his shoulder, it sounded like Dean was kicking the bodies piling up at his feet out of the way to make room for more.

Sam was way less aggressive and, to be completely honest, less sure of himself. After all, the last thing he'd killed had been Gordon...with his feet. But when the first wounded ghoul refused to back down, he made a swing like the ones he and Dean had practiced so many times. Use his full strength, follow through, aim for the sweet spot between vertebrae. Next thing he knew, the body was crumpling and the head was bouncing off between the grave markers. Another head soon joined it, and Sam's confidence climbed. Along with his disgust, but blood washed off.

It felt like a lot longer, but they were probably only five or ten minutes in when the ghouls realized they'd have a much better chance with Sam than Dean. So they started gathering on his side, and Dean patted his thigh with his free hand. It made a sticky sound against the denim.

"Okay," he said. "Let's switch."

"What?"

"Spin!"

They did, Sam moving with Dean and following his lead, and he was silently thrilled by how well they pulled it off. They worked so fluidly together that it was like the two of them had been hunting partners for years. Sam was sure that anybody watching them would've had a hard time telling that this was their first case. Granted, a lot of that probably had to do with Dean being a demon, the whole empathy thing especially. But still.

They rotated one more time when the ghouls tried to gang up on Sam again. A couple more bodies dropped. Then Sam could see a change in the surviving members of the mischief. They weren't charging anymore, a few were talking quietly to each other, and a few more had taken at least one step backwards. When they started to bolt, one by one and then in small groups, Dean laughed yet again.

"Ooh," he said. "They're scared now - 'bout damn time, if you ask me." His back left Sam's, and Sam turned to see Dean facing him, blood-spattered, still black-eyed, and grinning from ear to ear. "Ready for the fun part?"

Sam was sweating even though it was cold enough for the tips of his ears to be aching. Dean was breathing normally, but Sam's breaths were loud and ragged and burned in his lungs. His right arm ached from chopping off heads. It must be adrenaline, though, because he knew he was in great shape from training with Dean and running on his own.

He could see ghouls ducking behind headstones and diving back into their tunnels. A few were just running. On the ground around him and Dean, he counted seven corpses, although there could be more that Dean had kicked out of sight. He didn't want to chase down the live ones or deal with the clean up on the dead ones, which would need to be burned. He knew he had to do it. He just didn't want to.

"I think you might've had too much fun already," he said, and Dean just laughed.

"You aren't jealous, are you?" he asked, then suddenly stepped forward and kissed Sam, apparently on impulse. He put a hand on the back of his head and Sam leaned into it, though he could feel dried gel cracking in his hair and against Dean's fingers. The kiss was nice, energizing, even, but he had to break it with a grimace after a few seconds. He could handle the taste of sulfur, but not ghoul blood. "Sorry." Dean licked his lips, much to Sam's dismay. "We better go get 'em before they've got a chance to dig in...you think we need to take them all out?"

Sam sighed, appreciating both the fact that Dean was asking for his input and the chance to catch his breath. "I think we might have to. There're just so many of them, and...clearly, they're all aggressive. Plus, I'm worried that any we leave alive'll harbor a grudge." It happened. Not as much with ghouls as it did with other monsters, granted, but it could still be a problem.

"Great. That's what I was thinking." Dean adjusted his grip on his machete and looked around the graveyard, scanning slowly. "Well, let's go root 'em out, then. Don't suppose you noticed how many we had left?"

Sam let out a short bark of a laugh. "You're joking, right?"

"Course I am." Dean stepped over a particularly ragged corpse and motioned for Sam to follow him. "You're doing totally awesome, by the way."

Sam perked up some at the praise. It wasn't like he'd thought he was doing a  _bad_ job, but he'd needed to hear that anyway. He headed after Dean, smiling and opening his mouth to thank him, but Dean spoke again before he could: "So, ready to split up?"

That brought Sam up so short that he couldn't even think of a response right away. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him and laughed.

"I'm  _joking_ \- again," he said. "Don't worry. We're not gonna do that."

Sam let out a slow breath, relieved that Dean got he wasn't ready to work solo yet but still pissed at him for intentionally scaring him. "Asshole."

"Don't be a baby," Dean responded. "And why don't you go ahead and get out your flashlight? This'll work a lot better if you can see."

Sam did, and they started walking, bloody machetes up and at the ready. They talked, too, though they kept their voices down. The ghouls already knew they were here. Plus, Dean clearly wasn't tense enough to remain silent just out of nerves, and Sam was doing okay, too.

"So how many are usually in a mischief?" Dean asked.

"Three to eight," Sam replied. "At least one mated pair, and at least one pup." Spotting Dean shaking his head, he asked him, "What?"

"I'm just not sure if it's useful or freaky that you're a - a walking encyclopedia of monster facts," Dean replied.

"You're not really in any sort of position to be calling somebody a - right there!" Sam pointed with his flashlight. He wasn't sure if the ghoul that'd just suddenly dug its way up from behind the nearest headstone had been charging at Dean or trying to run past him, but either way, he took it out in one swipe. The force of the blow to its neck made the legs, still pumping, swing up into the air, and the headless body landed on its back. Under different circumstances, it might've been funny.

"Cleanup's gonna be a bitch on this one," Dean commented, gesturing to indicate the entire cemetery.

"I know I'm not looking forward to it," Sam agreed. "You wanna keep the bodies in one spot to try and make it easier?"

"I don't see the point 'til we're ready to torch 'em," Dean answered. "I remember where they all are. We just gotta make sure we don't miss any heads."

They fell into a rhythm. Find ghoul, chop its head off before it could attack or run again, move on. Whoever happened to be closest to it when they noticed it was the one who did the chopping. At Sam's suggestion, they swept the graveyard methodically, working in a grid pattern that probably would've fit better if the plot of land hadn't been irregularly-shaped. At least they could be confident they were clearing the whole thing.

Sam's thoughts went back to Mourner as they worked. It hadn't been great company, but it'd been cooperative, at least. Hadn't tried to escape, answered all of Sam's questions honestly, was genuinely interested in the book he was writing. It wasn't...well, it definitely wasn't Vaughn. Nobody was Vaughn. But Sam had kind of liked it anyway, and had even put himself through a lot of grief to have it returned to its home in Vermont once he was finished with it, since everybody already knew how to kill ghouls (not that they had to do it a lot) and there was no logic in putting it down. Not even for a dissection.

Sam still felt kind of weird about hunting ghouls. They were primarily scavengers, after all, not predators. But it helped to remind himself that, like he'd noticed earlier, these ghouls weren't anything like Mourner, who'd lived in a very small group and been aware of its place in the food chain. These ones were dangerous. What he and Dean were doing was exterminating vermin. Thinking of it like that made things easier.

The number of ghouls slowly dwindled. The late hour, stress, and physical exertion were all really starting to get to Sam, but he didn't say anything to Dean. This was the job and he could handle it. There couldn't possibly be that many monsters still lurking in the graveyard, and Dean's powers would make torching the remains about a million times easier than it normally would've been. And then they'd have to clear the tunnels before they left, and that'd be awful, but hopefully it wouldn't take too long.

Sam had just started to fantasize about taking a long, hot shower in the wee hours of the morning, then curling up in bed with Dean for the rest of the day, when things started going wrong.

Two ghouls suddenly sprinted from behind a large, ostentatious cross statue before Sam had even had a chance to aim his flashlight in the direction of their hiding spot. Dean laughed as he watched them race across the cemetery at full tilt.

"Oh, boy," he said. "Looks like we've got a couple runners."

"Dean, wait," Sam said, but it was too late: Dean had already taken off after them at something less than his top speed, which was still pretty damn fast. Sam wasn't sure why he didn't just teleport into their path. Maybe he was tired of teleportation, given how much he'd done it today. Maybe he wanted the feeling of actively running down his prey.

A needle of fear slid into Sam's throat. He tried to believe it was for Dean, but he was pretty confident his partner could hold his own just fine against a couple of ghouls. Even with all the kills he'd racked up tonight, Sam was vulnerable, and he knew it. Having Dean any further away than right next to him was terrifying.

Sam was aware that this kind of dependence couldn't possibly be healthy. But a stable psyche had never been one of his redeeming qualities, and even as he had the thought, he was starting to jog after Dean and taking a breath to call his name again.

That breath left him, hard and quiet, when he hit the ground all of a sudden. He was so surprised that it took him longer than it should have to figure out he'd tripped...and to realize that the impact had knocked his machete and flashlight out of his hands.

Not just tripped, actually, Sam had to acknowledge when he tried to get up and something hopped onto his back to force him back down.  _Been_ tripped. If this was an actual plan, then Sam was grudgingly impressed by these ghouls' ability to think under pressure.

"Got you." Hot breath, reeking of long-spoiled meat, dry earth, and formaldehyde, washed over the side of Sam's face as the ghoul on top of him hissed directly into his ear. The smell made his stomach twitch, and he was glad he'd last eaten hours before.

"Really?" Sam had managed to pull his arms under himself when he'd tried to get to his feet, and now he planted his forearms against the hard ground and bucked. The ghoul, who probably weighed less than a hundred pounds, tumbled off, and Sam was able to scramble up onto his knees before it came at him again.

It knocked him down for a second time, inhumanly strong despite its withered frame. He wrestled with it in the dirt and grass, focused on keeping its snapping jaws away from him. A bite wouldn't turn him, but it was basically guaranteed to get infected. He slammed an elbow into its throat so hard he hit his funny bone on its spine, making it choke and recoil. On his back and with one arm tingling unpleasantly, he tried to drag himself clear, but it pounced on him again before he could.

Sam couldn't see it very well. Not only was it the middle of the night (something that kept hammering home his infuriating lack of real night vision), but a nearby tombstone was shading the two of them from the stars, and his flashlight beam was pointing away. He didn't realize he was sparring with the ghoul he'd chopped a hand off of earlier until a wet stump of a wrist hit him squarely in the nose, the exposed bones scratching his face. His eyes watered and something hot almost instantly started dripping out of one nostril, but his nose wasn't broken. He knew what it would've felt like if it had been.

The pain made him mad. Mad at the ghoul for attacking him, at Dean for abandoning him, and at himself for being stupid and weak. He bent like he was curling into a ball in defeat, until he could bring up a leg. What'd used to be his "bad" one. In the back of his mind, he noticed that it was cramping as he kicked out with as much strength as he could muster - which, after months of training and running, wasn't too shabby. The ghoul went flying when his foot hit its chest, and much to his satisfaction, he was sure that he felt a rib or two break under the sole of his boot.

Sam finally stood, leg hurting but not too bad. He couldn't see Dean anywhere when he looked around, but that might change once he had his flashlight again. First, though, he needed to get the machete. The ghoul whose chest he'd hopefully just caved in really needed its head cut off. He shuffled through the grass, squinting, until one of his boots hit the blade, then bent to grab it. He heard something scuttling towards him a second too late. He tried to straighten up, but he wasn't fast enough to stop a bony hand from hooking into his hair.

Fingernails that were more like claws dug hot lines into his scalp. With gel sticking all the strands of his hair together, there was no breaking the grip. Pain erupted at Sam's roots as he was forcibly dragged back down onto the ground, but he was distracted from it a second later by having his head smashed into the edge of a headstone.

The first blow more or less took the fight out of him, but he struggled anyway, and yelled Dean's name as loudly as he could manage. After his skull made contact with the slab of granite a second and third time, though, he was limp as a rag doll, thoughts foggy and whole body aching like a fresh bruise. He couldn't believe he hadn't passed out. Maybe he was still awake because of the pain of having his head, which had to be pretty heavy, held up by a single handful of hair. One that connected to basically all the rest of the hair on his scalp like a spiderweb, because of the gel.

"I don't know what you and that black-eyed thing are to each other," the ghoul, crouching next to him, began. Its voice matched its body: creaky, ancient. "But we saw the two of you kissing, and that makes us think he values you, for one reason or another. Will he come running if I make you squeal? I think he will." The hand in his hair tightened, upping the stinging in his scalp. Sam was pretty out of it, maybe even concussed, but he knew he didn't want to make any sounds of pain. He bit the inside of one cheek to keep himself quiet. "Fine. Don't squeal. You yelled for him earlier; I imagine he's already on his way."

Sam made an effort to get away, one that came more from instinct than a conscious decision. It was basically just an upwards twitch. The ghoul responded by ripping his head back down and rubbing the side of his face into the cemetery soil. Sam coughed and spit, dirt in one eye and his mouth. His head hurt, too, since it was the tombstone-bashed side that was on the ground.

"Now, now," the ghoul said. "Can't have you running off before he gets here." It paused. Looking up with his dirt-free eye (which focused perfectly - that was a good sign), Sam could see it looking around. "Actually, I'm surprised he's not here already. You called him, didn't you? And we saw how he can disappear from one place and reappear instantly in another." The ghoul lifted Sam's head and lowered its own to look at him with fake sympathy. "Maybe you're expendable. You're only human, after all. Food."

Trying to play on Sam's insecurity about his relationship with Dean wouldn't work. He didn't have much of it anymore. "You  _want_ him to come kill you?"

The ghoul laughed. "He can kill as many of us as he wants. We'll figure out how to hurt him eventually, and then it'll all be over."

It was either overly confident or insane, courtesy of the embalming fluid Sam could smell on its breath. He thought they might be close to running out of ghouls for Dean to kill. Where the hell was he, anyway? He actually agreed with the thing holding him down on that one. He spat again, but his teeth still felt gritty. "Yeah...okay. Good luck."

For some reason, that really pissed the ghoul off. It forced his head down again - face-first, aggravating his already-swollen nose. Sam couldn't help crying out this time, voice muffled by the dirt. It felt like the ghoul was leaning all of its weight on the back of his skull.

"Listen to me,  _meat_ ," it hissed at him. "If he's not here within the next minute, we're going to start eating you. Iblis knows we could use fresh meat, and it looks like there's plenty of you to go around." It dug its bony knuckles, hard, into the place where his neck met his head, grinding them into the tendons. "We'll start with your hands and feet. See if the screams from that finally bring - "

It stopped abruptly when a nearby shriek echoed over the graveyard, followed by the wet sound of a machete carving its way through a neck. The ghoul's grip on Sam's hair loosened slightly, and he pictured it straightening up and looking around. He wanted to tell it that it'd gotten its wish; Dean was here. But he could hardly even breathe with the position that he was in, let alone speak.

There were more screams, more slices. Bodies and heads thudded. There must have been a lot of ghouls in this area, and Sam heard some of them try to run, but of course they didn't stand a chance. The ghoul holding him began to tremble - thankfully, not enough to pull on his hair any more than it already was - but, to its credit, it stayed right where it was. Until it was suddenly ripped upwards with a howl of fear.

Unfortunately, it didn't bother to let go of his hair. Sam yelled as a good handful was ripped free, along with what felt like more than one decent-sized scrap of scalp. There was a  _whoosh_ ing sound of something flying through the air, the ghoul screamed, and then there was a loud impact, punctuated by snapping bones. Sam lifted his head to see it crumpled against the base of the nearest headstone, which it'd presumably just been thrown against, and Dean dropping into a crouch next to him. His eyes were still black and his expression was almost comically worried.

"Oh, god," he said. "I'm gonna skin that thing alive - I'm so sorry, Sammy. I shouldn't've left you alone, I should've got here sooner...I heard you, but I was down in the tunnels. I can't teleport right now."

"I'm okay," Sam assured him as he pushed himself up and got his legs under him so he could sit. "It's okay." He was still frustrated, though, a little resentful...and embarrassed. He was sure Dean could feel all of that. He was going to ask him why he couldn't teleport, but Dean reached for his face and started probing it with bloody hands before he could. His touch was gentle, but Sam flinched backwards anyway when he got near his tender nose. Dean hissed, and he couldn't tell if it was a noise of sympathy or anger.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Okay." He all but shot to his feet, grabbing his machete from where he'd driven the blade into the ground as he crouched, then strode over to the ghoul. It was stirring feebly, and yelped when Dean grabbed a handful of its sparse old-man hair and yanked it up. He held it at eye level, and its feet dangled a good six inches above the ground. "Hey, there. What's your name?"

His voice was manically bright and cheerful, a predatory edge buried in it. Sam slowly stood as the ghoul grunted out, "Rupture."

"Well, nice to meet you, Rupture. Y'know, earlier, I heard you say something about starting with the hands and feet. That sure sounds like a good idea." He tapped the raw edge of the ghoul's wrist-stump roughly with the machete. Rupture winced. "Looks like my 'meat' already got started on that. Whaddaya say we finish the job? Joint by joint 'til you're nothing but a head?"

"Dean," Sam said, walking over to him. "Don't."

Dean glanced at him as he came up beside him. "He was gonna eat you. Slowly."

"So just kill him. Don't...play with him."

"I'm not playing, I'm  _punishing_."

"Dying's not punishment enough?" Sam asked. "Just cut his head off."

Dean stared at him, hard, for a few seconds, and Sam couldn't help feeling slightly unnerved. It was near impossible to read him when his eyes were solid black. Finally, he broke eye contact and turned his attention back to the ghoul with a shrug. "Fine."

"Ple - " Rupture started, sounding panicked, but Dean slashed through its neck before it could get the rest of the word out. Most of its neck, at least. And a fair portion of its spinal cord, too. But he left enough nerves and tissue intact for the ghoul to live long past what a simple decapitation would've allowed. Its eyes bugged and its mouth opened in a silent scream, blood running out the corners, as Dean violently shook it until the weight of the body ripped it free from the head the rest of the way.

That was what alerted Sam to the fact that it was over: that disgustingly-juicy tearing noise. He'd turned away with a grimace when Dean started shaking, but he looked at him again as he drop-kicked the head - because, apparently, that was just something he had to do, even though they'd need to go find that head later. Even in the dark, Sam could tell that it looked like he'd run through a blood sprinkler.

 _"Jesus,"_ Sam stated, flatly.

"You know the name of God doesn't make me flinch." Dean turned to Sam, studying him. " _And_  you know he had that coming." He put a hand on his shoulder. "Now that he's dealt with, though, let's go on and head back to the room so I can take a look at that nose."

"But - what about the other ghouls?" Sam asked, though he didn't resist as Dean started to lead him away, picking up his flashlight and machete on the way and handing them to him. "We've gotta - "

"What about 'em?" Dean interrupted him. "They're all dead."

"What?"

"They're dead. We're done. Graveyard's clear."

"Are you totally sure about that?" Sam asked uncertainly.

"Yeah."

Dean sounded pretty confident in himself, and not all that inclined to talk about it. So Sam changed the subject. "How about the bodies?"

"I'll take care of it," Dean replied.

"But - "

"I  _said_  I'll take care of it, Sam." Dean cut him off again, sounding annoyed. "I've got it. We've got six or seven hours of darkness left. Plenty of time to clean up, but you're my priority right now."

Sam was silent. He felt like he was being brushed off, and he resented that, but right now, he was feeling too tired and beat up to focus on why. And he did like the idea of going back to the motel instead of spending the rest of the night dragging corpses around. He let Dean guide him through the cemetery, let him keep a hand on him to steady him when he stumbled. He stumbled a lot, because he was limping right now. He knew it and concentrated on correcting it, but every time he did, it didn't last long. He was still spitting and blinking out dirt, too. His head and face throbbed, but he didn't say anything, not wanting to whine.

They walked along the fence instead of going back exactly the way they'd come. Sam didn't understand why until Dean lifted a loose section of chain link, probably where the kids from earlier had come in and out, and pushed him through with a hand on the small of his back. He'd said he couldn't teleport right now. Sam tried to ask him about that; Dean beat him to the punch.

"What happened?" he asked. Sam didn't want to admit the truth, but his brain was too bruised - or at least jostled - to come up with a convincing lie.

"He got me by the hair," he said. To his credit, Dean didn't say anything, which must've been hard for him. "You were right about that. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Dean said. "It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't my nose that got broken. I left you alone after I said I wouldn't.  _I'm_ sorry." He didn't say anything else for a couple of minutes as they made the long walk back to the car, then sighed. "We are gonna have to talk about your hair. But I'm not gonna make you do that tonight."

Sam grunted his appreciation as he climbed into the car, sinking low in the passenger seat. The well-worn leather wasn't very forgiving of his aching body. He felt at his head in the back, where a handful of hair had been ripped out. There was definitely a lot missing. He thought he was bleeding some, too: the bald patch was damp and raw. At least he'd gotten all the dirt out of his mouth and eye by then.

Dean drove them back to the motel, let them into their room. He flicked on the lights and took Sam's machete from him. Sam went to sit on the foot of the bed, dropping his flashlight next to his backpack with a deep sigh. He heard water running in the bathtub and saw Dean kneeling next to it, rinsing the blood and gore off their weapons. He closed his eyes, and didn't open them again until Dean walked up to him. He was holding a wet washcloth. It probably belonged to the motel, given how thin and cheap it looked, and Sam hoped it was clean.

"All right." Dean took a seat next to him, then began dabbing the blood off his nose and upper lip when he turned to look at him. Sam noted that his eyes were back to green. He was gentle, so it didn't hurt too bad. "'Kay...so, you're swollen, but you don't have that raccoon look going on, so hopefully it's not actually broken." Dean squinted at him. "You hurt anywhere else?"

"Yeah, I've got - " Sam went to point out the huge goose egg right behind his temple, the one the headstone had brought up, but he abruptly cut himself off when something else caught his attention. "Oh my  _god!_ "

"What?"

"You've got  _nails_ in your  _neck_!" He'd almost thought they were mushrooms at first, unable to make sense of the shape. They were long, dark, and crude, like they'd been shaped by hand with a hammer. There were three, rusted, and Dean's skin was angry and red and puffy all around where they were sticking out of him.

"Oh," Dean said. "Yeah. There's a few in my chest and belly, too. They got those in deeper." Sam looked. Dean's shirt was so dark with ghoul-blood that he hadn't even noticed at first, but now he could make out at least a dozen square metal heads dotting his torso. "They're iron. Coffin nails. They got me with 'em when I followed those two down into the tunnels. No idea how they even knew that'd work, seeing as they didn't know what I was, but it did. Slowed me down, at least." He touched one with his free hand, then pulled it away with a hiss as the skin of his fingertips steamed and reddened. "Can you take 'em out for me? Soon as I finish fixing you up?"

"Why in the hell didn't you tell me earlier?" Sam grabbed the three nails in Dean's neck and yanked them free. Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, but that was his only reaction. The holes the nails left behind were ragged. One leaked blood, and they all had steam trailing out of them as they slowly began to close. Sam held onto the nails for now, the iron cold and rough. He didn't want to drop them on the floor and the wastebasket was too far for him to sink a shot. "I could've pulled these out back in the cemetery. We could've teleported to the car."

"I kinda forgot about them," Dean admitted. He looked at Sam's head, where he'd been about to point out the lump earlier, as Sam held back an exasperated sigh.

"Didn't it hurt?"

"My pain's not the same as yours," Dean replied. Sam couldn't think of anything to say to that.

He pulled the nails out of Dean, one by one. He wound up making a pile of them on the bedspread. Sure, they were dirty and bloody, but it was camo and he'd already gotten grime all over it just by sitting down. Plus, it wasn't like he slept on top of it.

"This reminds me of when I was in the cell," Dean commented. "In your cabin. And you were cleaning me up from where Gordon and those other assholes beat the shit outta me."

"You mean when you made fun of my limp and kicked me in my bad leg?" Sam replied.

"Pretty sure I apologized for that." Dean had been examining Sam even as he removed the nails, and now he was on the headstone-lump. He couldn't even touch the hair that covered that part of Sam's skull without him flinching. "D'you feel concussed at all? You're not acting like it."

"He didn't even knock me out, so I think I'm okay," Sam assured him. He pulled out one final nail from near Dean's navel, and his shirt fell free from where it'd been pinned to him. "And I think that's the last one."

"It was." Dean turned Sam slightly so that he could look at the back of his head. He must've found the bald patch, because he sucked his teeth sympathetically and then began to dab at it with the washcloth. Sam's eyes watered. "I can heal you now. Want me to do that?"

"No," Sam replied. "I really don't wanna rely on that unless whatever's wrong with me is, like, debilitating. 'Specially 'cause it drains you." He put a finger in one of Dean's slowly-shrinking nail-holes, then quickly jerked his hand back, having grossed himself out. "Heal your vessel instead, okay?"

"Yeah, all right." Dean drew back, and Sam looked at him again. "I've gotta go back to the graveyard and take care of all the dead ghouls. But d'you wanna get cleaned up first?"

"Yes," Sam said immediately. He wanted a shower so bad it almost hurt, and he wanted Dean to take it with him. He didn't want him to leave afterwards, but even though it made him feel guilty, he wasn't going to volunteer to help with the ghouls,. Standing up and shrugging out of his jacket, he held it up and grimaced at the blood covering the sleeves and the front. "Think we're gonna have to burn these clothes along with the bodies?"

"Let me have a crack at 'em first," Dean replied, standing up and taking Sam's jacket from him. "Nine times outta ten, I can get monster blood out of anything. Seltzer water works miracles."

"I thought you'd jump at the chance to burn clothes, with how much you hate laundry," Sam commented. Dean didn't say anything to that.

Sam undressed, handing his clothes to Dean as he took them off, then dumped the iron nails into the room's trash can. He hoped that was far enough away from Dean not to bother him. As Dean stripped, Sam grabbed the plastic shopping bag that held his shower stuff - shampoo, conditioner, a few other things - and walked naked into the bathroom. He left the lights on as he moved the machetes from the side of the tub to the counter, rinsed the residual ghoul-blood down the drain, and then held a hand under the water to wait for it to warm up. Dean joined him just as he was getting in.

"So," Dean proclaimed, pulling the curtain shut behind him. "Your first hunt in eight years, all wrapped up. Just about. How d'you feel?"

Sam groaned. He was standing directly under the spray, watching bloody water sluice off their bodies and swirl down the drain. Dean's body was, unfortunately, still full of holes. Smaller than they had been, but still there. At least they weren't steaming or bleeding anymore.

"Awful," Sam answered, deciding to be completely honest. "All I ever do is screw up and get hurt - and that's outside of hunting, too."

"Hey." Dean cupped the side of Sam's jaw, making him look him in the eyes. "That's not true. Since I've known you, you've killed a djinn, a banshee, five demons, a guy who was about as bad as all of those combined, and...six or seven ghouls. Sorry, I wasn't really keeping count." He rubbed Sam's cheekbone affectionately with a thumb. "Plus, you saved my smoky ass. Brought me back from Hell. Then decided to do the Trials, and hunt, and put in all the effort it took to get ready for that. You're doing better than you think."

Sam smirked a little, leaning into Dean's hand. "I hate how good you are at making me feel better." It'd worked so well that he was even willing to overlook the mention of Gordon. He reached out to touch Dean's chest, and felt the nail-holes closing fully under his palm. They left no scars behind, of course. Dean's eyes had gone black, hooded with heavy lids as he concentrated on healing himself. "Speaking of bringing you back from Hell. I'm really glad the ghouls used you for carpentry practice instead of exorcising you."

"I'm glad they just ripped out a bunch of your Barbie hair instead of killing you," Dean replied. When Sam snorted softly, he brought his other hand up and held his face between both. "I'm serious. I don't know what I'd do if you died and I couldn't get you back. I'm not sure who I'd be at this point without you, but I know I don't wanna find out."

Sam hadn't been expecting that kind of admission from Dean. Not right now, and maybe not ever. He could only respond physically to it. The naked spot on the back of his skull stung in the water as he moved his head forward to kiss Dean, and he put his arms around his waist. They kissed for a while, opening their mouths and tasting each other, and it grew steadily more heated. They moved closer together, so Sam could feel it when Dean started getting hard - which, of course, brought his own erection right up.

There was a bottle of lube in Sam's shower bag. Dean grabbed it, and Sam spread his legs so Dean could massage two fingers' worth into his hole. Then Dean picked him up by the thighs and braced his back against the cold tile wall. Sam closed his eyes and groaned, crossing his legs over Dean's ass, as Dean slid his cock into him.

Dean was gentle. Sam knew he had the power to batter him into a puddle of quivering pleasure, to shake whatever piece of furniture they were on to dust, to make someone in the room next door bang on the wall and yell at them to keep it down. He'd done it before. Sam had begged him to. Tonight, though, his rhythm was steady and smooth as he slipped back and forth inside of Sam. It didn't jostle his sore head or make it bang against the wall. Sam wrapped his arms around his neck, rolling his hips gently against Dean's, and they kissed between thrusts.

Sam's orgasm wasn't anything special when it happened, maybe because he'd had one already earlier in the day. He moved a little faster, held Dean a little tighter with both his arms and legs, and breathed a little harder. He didn't say anything or yell. Even the blurt of come he shot onto Dean's flat stomach was pretty average in its size, easily washed away by the water. He felt satisfied after he was finished, though, ready to go to sleep. And very, very close to Dean.

Dean finished a few seconds later, inside of Sam. He slowly lowered him as he wilted out of him, and Sam brought his feet down to meet the bottom of the tub.

"I wasn't planning on that," Dean said. Sam was standing on his own, but they were still holding each other. "Just so you know."

"I know," Sam replied. "Thanks anyway. I needed it." He rested his chin on Dean's shoulder. He'd let him wash him. He was tired, and he wanted to bask in the afterglow, which was sometimes better than the climax itself. It was in this case. "So. One hunt down. Can we do the first Trial now?"

Dean hesitated.

"We'll talk about that when we talk about your hair," he replied, reaching for Sam's shampoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? I'm looking for an editor! Or two, or three, since different points of view are always a good thing.
> 
> You'll get to:
> 
> * Read new chapters and pieces ahead of everyone else
> 
> * Correct spelling errors
> 
> * Let me bounce my ideas off you (aka, get the intended plots for stories ahead of everyone else, and help me figure out if they're any good or not)
> 
> * Tell me when I'm being an idiot
> 
> * Soothe my raging insecurities about my writing
> 
> Doesn't that sound like fun?!
> 
> If you're interested, PM me on Fanfiction, note me on deviantArt (if you do that, though, be aware that I only go on dA once a month or even less, so there's no guarantee I'll get back to you anytime soon), or DM me on Twitter. Unfortunately, there's no private-messaging service on this site, which sucks. Once you get a hold of me, tell me what you'd be okay with helping me on. Just this story, just vanilla one-shots, just WG one-shots, everything, whatever. We can chat and we'll swap e-mail addresses if I decide you're a good fit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my editor, sweetyaoi!

_SW is clearly hiding something about life w/ father/what happened to them in Vermont. Gentle reminder that therapy won't work if he isn't honest didn't lead to change. Possible abuse? Shows clear signs of past trauma. Paranoia/defensiveness. Report from hospital mentioned multiple scars of different ages all over body. Might push issue in future sessions._

_Says journaling is helping. Still refuses to share contents. Non-issue._

_Seems to feel a strong sense of duty. Has mentioned "getting back to work" and "saving/protecting people." These seem like slip-ups: refuses to answer and withdraws when asked to elaborate. Possible delusions of grandeur or narcissistic personality disorder._

_Very obviously doesn't grasp the extent of his injury. Believes firmly in a full recovery beyond "a little bit of a limp" and the eventual ability to walk unaided. Denial persists even when damage and outlook is fully explained, and when showed photos and X-rays of his own leg under bandages._

_Has no concept of his physical limitations and believes he is capable of much more than he actually is. Unclear whether this is a new problem or a longstanding one._

_Denial is #1 priority right now._

_\- Notes from patient files of Sam Winchester's former therapist_

* * *

"You're just so goddamn stupid sometimes."

The way Dean said it made it come out blunt. Matter-of-fact. He didn't sound very angry or upset at all, and that pissed Sam off even more than it would've if he'd yelled at him.

" _I'm_ stupid?" he demanded. "Seriously? You're the one who seems to think it's fun to just go charging off on your own all the time."

"Well." Dean only had one hand on the wheel. It wasn't that uncommon for him and he probably didn't need to use both hands as much as a human driver did, so Sam wasn't sure why it irritated him so much right now. "I did wrap up the hunt."

"You did," Sam agreed. "You also wound up full of nails, so you couldn't really use your powers at all, and I almost got eaten."

"I wouldn't've let you get eaten," Dean said "I  _didn't_ let you get eaten. Not even part of you."

"What if they'd actually known what you were, though, Dean?" Sam asked, spreading his hands. "What if there'd been a devil's trap waiting for you down in those tunnels instead of just a bunch of ghouls with coffin nails?" He answered his own question. "They could've done whatever they wanted to me and you wouldn't've even been able to move."

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "Did you just...admit you needed me to save your dumb ass?"

"I needed your help on this hunt," Sam said. It was hard not to speak through gritted teeth, admitting that right now. "Of course I did. It was my first one in years. I was rusty." He sucked in a deep breath. "You seem to think I'm totally helpless, though. And I told you we were partners and I had your back, and  _you_ brought up how I called you back after Gordon shipped you down to the Pit, but all that seems to go out the window when we're actually hunting." He glared at Dean. The expression physically hurt - he had a savage headache that must've sprung up sometime after he'd fallen asleep last night - but it was worth it. "Or when I wanna do the First Trial and start saving the world. Y'know, like you  _promised_ I could after I did a hunt with you."

"Hope you realize you sound like you're about five years old right now," Dean stated. He didn't even do Sam the courtesy of looking at him

"Well, that's how you're treating me!"

"Okay: one." Dean lifted the index finger of the hand he had on the wheel. "I did not say 'a' hunt. I said  _at least one_  hunt. And if I didn't, that's what I meant. And two." He lifted his middle finger. "I don't think you're helpless, all right? But I do think you're stubborn, and totally unrealistic, and too boneheaded to know when you're being those two things, and you need more practice before you do something as huge as a Trial."

"I'm a lot less worried about getting hurt than I am about you deciding to abandon me and bleed out the hellhounds on your own," Sam said. "And then getting dragged back to Hell by them."

Dean pushed a forceful breath out through his nose, and Sam deeply regretted what he'd just said. That'd been worse than Dean bringing up Gordon or Vaughn would've been for him. He hadn't been thinking about that when he said it and didn't want to believe he'd subconsciously tried to gouge Dean, but with how he felt right now, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Especially because he couldn't quite bring himself to apologize as the silent seconds dragged on.

"I fucked up last night," Dean said after a while, and took his hand off the wheel in order to throw both of them up in the air. Sam's relief at him acting like nothing had happened evaporated into panic before he slapped the hand back down. "I admitted it, I said I was sorry, and I still feel shitty. Not sure what else you want from me." Finally, he looked at Sam. "So we both need practice, okay? I'm used to working alone and you're used to not doing any of this. And I don't get why me saying that got your hackles up so much."

"Sorry I didn't roll right over and agree with you when you called me stupid," Sam said replied acidly, head pounding.

"Well, you're acting stupid right now," Dean replied, unapologetic. "Which is especially frustrating 'cause I know you aren't." His hand tightened on the wheel. "You coulda died last night, Sam. Or wound up brain-damaged - or missing your hands and feet. D'you seriously not get why I'm not comfortable letting you go straight from that into the Trials?"

"D'you not get why I'm not comfortable with you acting like you get to make the decision for me?" Sam countered.

"I'm not. I'm making the decision for  _me_ \- and that's another thing you don't seem to get. Dean's pupils were irregularly-shaped, black smoke boiling furiously at the center of his eyes. Sam could see it reflected in the rear-view mirror. "You can't just do everything on your own. Much as you seem to hate it, you need my help, and you gotta do at least a few things my way."

"I said I'd let you cut my hair."

"How - noble and generous of you, your freaking majesty." Dean looked at him again, then sighed loudly. "I can feel how bad you're hurting, y'know. Part of that's gotta be lack of sleep. Why don't you just climb in the back? We can sort this out when your brain's not one loud noise away from leaking out your ears."

"I'm fine."

"You - "

"I said,  _I'm fine._ "

Rejecting Dean's offer made Sam want to cry, just like it had the couple other times he'd put it on the table since they'd left the motel. He knew he hadn't gotten enough sleep. His body was punishing him for that, and for the beating that his head had taken last night. The goose egg that he'd gotten in the graveyard was so swollen that he could see the shape of it even under his hair, and when he'd parted that hair in the mirror - wincing at the pain even that much contact caused him - the skin of his scalp had been a dark purple with bruising. On the back of his head, at least, the bald patch had scabbed over. But it stung practically every time he moved. He'd never realized just how much talking or nodding pulled on the skin back there.

A nap would be incredible. Even a few Tylenol or something would be welcome; anything to let him escape the agony of his headache for a little while. He was almost tempted to go ahead and have Dean heal him after all. But he refused to ask for that or pills, and he refused to interrupt their dispute for rest.

It wasn't even that he wanted to get his way, or didn't want to give Dean the time to think up a more convincing argument. At this point, he was just fighting to fight. Something that his father and other people had accused him of doing all the time when he was younger.

"All right," Dean agreed, shrugging unconcernedly. "If you wanna spend the rest of the day in pain, I can't force you not to. But you are basically proving my point for me about you being stubborn."

"Just keep your word and stop acting like I'm some kind of fragile idiot you have to protect," Sam said. "And I'll lay down."

"So show me you're not an idiot and you don't need to be protected," Dean said, and Sam really resented how reasonable his voice sounded. "Do another hunt with me and  _don't_ get beat up."

"Even if I do, will you be satisfied?" Sam asked. "Or will you just come up with another excuse?" It looked like Dean was about to reply, so Sam talked over him. "You're just so freaking overprotective that - I'm not even sure you see me as a person. You never seem to remember that I've actually got years of hunting experience, or that I spent the last eight years wrangling monsters. Not just sitting around feeling sorry for myself."

"So d'you want me protecting you, or don't you?" Dean asked him. "You seem really pissed about it, but you're also pissed that I ran off last night instead of sticking around and keeping that ghoul from pulling your hair. Make up your mind."

"If that was all he did, you shouldn't be so against me doing the First Trial," Sam said.

Instead of responding right away, Dean ran his free hand over his hair. Frustration flickered across his face.

"Okay," he said after a little bit. "I know that this is probably gonna make you go nuclear, especially 'cause of how bitchy you're being right now. But I'm starting to wonder if you should even do the Trials."

Sam would've liked to prove Dean wrong by  _not_ going nuclear or being bitchy, but what he'd just said triggered such a visceral knee-jerk reaction in him that it was damn near impossible for him to keep his anger in check. That probably would've been true even if he hadn't been exhausted and hurting.

"What the hell're you talking about?" he demanded. He would've shaken his head if he hadn't been afraid that would make him throw up. "This is  _closing the gates of Hell,_ Dean. Getting rid of all demons, forever. Or at least making them easier to deal with. Not to mention Hell itself. And don't try and tell me demons aren't that big of a problem. We can't go east 'cause that part of the country's crawling with them, and not even you know why. And we've been driving since five because some got too close for comfort."

Sam had only been in bed for a few hours when Dean came back to the room from burning ghouls. He'd been in the middle of a R.E.M. cycle, dreaming hazily of rotting bodies and ragged holes in the ground and fire, so when Dean shook him awake, he was too out of it to make sense of what he was saying right away. He could tell that he was smudged with dirt and smelled like smoke from the cleanup in the cemetery, and that was about it. Eventually, though, he woke up fully, understood that Dean had sensed a couple demons within a ten-mile radius, and started packing so they could leave.

He'd been quietly panicking about the demons sensing Dean, too, until Dean put his mind at ease. They were low-level, he was a Knight. If he didn't want them to know where he was, they wouldn't until they were almost on top of him. That was why they hadn't had a problem before now, and this was probably just a coincidence. But they still needed to put some distance between themselves and those other demons.

By the time they got in the car, Sam had remembered Dean's promise to talk about his hair and the First Trial today. He brought it up, and they'd been fighting ever since.

"Yeah," Dean said, "I know." Sam's victory was short-lived as he continued: "But we've been acting like this is the only possible solution to the demon thing, and maybe it's time we pulled our heads out of our asses."

"What the hell're you talking about?" Sam repeated. It felt like there was sand between the backs of his eyeballs and his sockets, and he was ready to pick apart whatever bullshit explanation Dean offered. No matter what it was.

"We don't even know that the Trials are gonna work like they're supposed to," Dean told him. His voice was oddly quiet. Sam got the sense that he was reluctantly admitting something that'd been bothering him for a long time, something he'd tried to ignore. "After all, nobody's ever done 'em before. Obviously." He threw his free hand up in the air again. "Or, hell, even worse - maybe somebody  _has._ And they didn't do crap. Or fucked things up even more."

"Your Prophet got them off a Word of God," Sam pointed out. "The demon Tablet."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that, actually," Dean said. "He could've read it wrong. You've obviously never seen a Prophet at work before, but it's like watching somebody try to drill a hole in their own head. It hurts. Prophets are born being able to read Enochian, they're the only people who can, but their brains  _still_ aren't wired for it 'cause they're human. I think it's got something to do with the whole Fall of Man thing, original sin...whatever. Not the point."

Sam was annoyed by his own urge to take notes."

"God could've gotten it wrong, too," Dean went on. "He didn't make demons, or Hell - Lucifer did. So I don't know how well He would've understood us when he wrote that Tablet to...to put the universe in order or whatever."

"Dictated," Sam said, tightly.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked.

"God didn't write His Words. He dictated them to Metatron. Angelic scribe, Voice of God."

Dean drew in a deep, slow breath. "Right. 'Cause that's what's important right now. That's what we should be focusing on.  _Thank you_ for correcting me, Sam."

"I wouldn't have to if you just got your lore right," Sam replied, turning to look out the window.

"Okay," Dean said. "How's this for lore? God's a huge asshole. Have you seen anything, in your whole life, that makes you think He wouldn't put a fake or - or downright  _bad_  fix-all for demons in one of His Words, just to dick with us?"

Sam didn't answer. He thought about telling Dean that he'd clearly believed in it working enough to die for it. The words popped into his mind with a white burst of shock that made his headache worse, but he didn't say them. He'd already let out something he regretted once today. Dean let him stew for a while before breaking the silence again.

"Maybe it'd be different if the Trials were easy," he said. "But they're all nightmares. I remember. And I don't wanna risk you for something that isn't even a guarantee."

"Okay," Sam said. Oh, man, did his head hurt. He was actually starting to have a hard time thinking past the pain. "Right there. You don't wanna 'risk me.' You're talking like you own me, or you've got total control over me."

"I'll give you that," Dean said, exasperatedly. "And I'm sorry. But you keep talking like you're still working alone. Like you've only gotta worry about yourself." He went quiet, and when Sam looked away from the window and back at him, he saw Dean staring at him with his jaw set. "But that's not your life anymore, is it?"

"Are you saying we need to work on our relationship?" It came out more mocking than Sam had intended.

"Couldn't hurt." Dean shrugged. "That could be the root of all the problems we're having now. God knows I've always sucked at the monogamy thing, and you've got basically no experience. And it's only been a little over six months." He looked up at the top of the windshield, thinking to himself instead of focusing on the road. At least there was no real traffic. "But what I'm saying is that you're right. It's your decision. But you're gonna have to meet me halfway on some things. Like your hair, and getting in more practice for the both of us. That's just part of being a couple."

"I know." Sam could've said he didn't want to be a couple anymore, but even right now, that wasn't true.

"So." A gas station had come up without Sam noticing, and Dean pulled into the parking lot. Bringing the car to a stop next to one of the pumps, he pulled the keys out of the ignition, then sat back with his hands in his lap. He stared straight ahead. "What d'you wanna do?"

"I want to do the First Trial." Sam sucked in a breath and said the next part in an exaggeratedly deliberate tone. "What do I have to do to get you to help me with that?"

"I'll make it easy for you," Dean replied. "Lemme cut your hair and do another hunt with me. Then we can talk about it,  _together_ , and decide whether or not we're ready."

"Fine." It wasn't a terrible plan.

"Good?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, Dean climbed out of the car and got busy putting gas in it. Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He couldn't even put his head down because the back of it hurt so bad. His sinuses swam, the lump on his skull throbbing, and he groaned softly. A couple minutes later, he was startled out of his self-imposed darkness by his door being opened.

It was Dean. He must've gone inside the convenience store to pay for the gas, because he was holding a bag from it. He put it in Sam's lap, and the things inside were heavy and cold. Sam pulled one out and saw that it was a bottle of Gatorade.

"We resolved the issue," Dean said. He closed Sam's door, went around to his own side of the car, removed the gas nozzle, and climbed in. "That means you can start taking care of yourself now." He pointed to the bag. "There's a bottle of Advil in there, too. So drink, and medicate yourself, and then get in the back and rest."

"Okay." Sam surrendered with a sigh, cracking open the Gatorade. It was blue, and so cold it nearly hurt his teeth when he took a sip. He nursed it, holding it carefully so he wouldn't dump it all over himself, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot and got them back on the road.

Dean was driving with one hand again. The right one. Sam ignored it, focusing on drinking and how much he was looking forward to going back to sleep. He only saw it out of the corner of his eye when Dean swapped his right hand out for his left and reached across the space between the two of them. He swallowed his mouthful of Gatorade prematurely as he started palming him through his jeans, and had to struggle not to cough.

"What're you doing?" he asked, clearing his throat. It wasn't like it was uncommon for them to have sex after they finished fighting. Actually, even though Sam had, as Dean put it, "basically no experience" with relationships, he didn't think it was uncommon for a lot of couples. Usually, though, it didn't happen this fast. Or while Dean was driving.

"I heard once that coming can help with a headache," Dean replied. "Relieves tension, releases happy chemicals." He looked over at Sam. "Don't tell me you don't need it. You've basically got a migraine going on right now, I know. And you won't let me heal you, so..."

"Are you really gonna jerk me off while you're driving?" Sam asked. He wasn't sure he was ready to be done fighting with Dean. He was irritated by the sudden intimacy and didn't want to be touched, but couldn't stop himself from pressing up slightly against Dean's hand as he rubbed him.

"I can do it," Dean assured him. "Trust me. I'm great at multitasking. And only road head's dangerous. Road handjobs are fine."

Sam would've thought that he felt too bad right now to get horny, but his body was responding to Dean anyway, dick swelling and hardening inside of his jeans. Even as his thighs unconsciously spread and a fast breath hissed into him, he reached down with his free hand and grabbed Dean's wrist. Dean immediately stopped moving.

"Want me to stop?" he asked quietly.

"...no," Sam decided after thinking for a couple of seconds. He let go of Dean's wrist, screwed the cap back on his Gatorade, and set it aside for the moment. They'd done it twice yesterday, so his appetite for sex was pretty much satisfied. His appetite for Dean wasn't, though. He was familiar with masturbating to cure a headache, too, although he'd read it rather than hearing about it, and he guessed that he was willing to try it. But after the fight they'd just had, he didn't want to sit back and passively let Dean take care of him.

He nudged Dean's hand out of the way and opened his jeans, undoing the button and the zipper. Grabbing his hand again, he shoved it down inside his boxers, and Dean obligingly trailed his fingers around his steadily-growing length. As he pulled him out, just enough to get a better grip on him, Sam cupped his own balls through the layers of fabric they rested in. Dean chuckled softly, holding his cock like a joystick (that was actually a really good euphemism for a penis, Sam realized suddenly) and rubbing his thumb over the slit at the top, which had already begun to ooze precome.

"You're really taking charge, ain'tcha?" he asked. "Good for you."

"Want me to - to reciprocate?" Sam panted out, hoping Dean would say no. Doing this to himself was hard enough, with the pain that was currently splitting his skull down the center.

"Nah," Dean replied "I got you." He smiled through the windshield. "Just hope nobody drives by and looks in through your window."

"Hopefully this won't take too long." Sam braced the hand that wasn't full of sac against the roof of the car and closed his eyes.

There were times when it was more about the journey than the destination for him. When he wanted to draw it out and really enjoy it. This wasn't one of them. He just wanted to finish, so he pulled out all the stops and did everything he'd learned he liked. Tugged and squeezed gently at his balls, angled his hips in a certain way, ground his ass (which, with all the prostate orgasms he'd been having lately, had become an erogenous zone) against the leather seat. Dean was stroking him, and he bucked softly into his hand. He was always surprised by how good Dean's calluses felt against the sensitive skin of his cock. The friction was incredible. And when Dean took his hand away halfway through and spat into his palm, that kept it from getting to be too much.

About five minutes in, Sam blew out a breath and dropped his head back, picking up the pace with his hips and hand in an effort to reach the finish line. He'd flatlined. It felt good, but the pleasure wasn't increasing. He was right on the edge of orgasm, but didn't know how to get over.

"C'mon, baby," Dean coaxed him. His voice, low and rough, sent a hot pulse through Sam's core. "Come for me, Sammy."

That was exactly what Sam had needed. He was coming a few seconds later, grunting under his breath, covering Dean's hand in sticky whiteness. It was good, better than he'd expected, the sudden flood of pleasure even making his legs tremble a little. The best part, though, came in the seconds immediately following his climax: his headache got better. The pain dulled until it was something approaching tolerable. Sam sighed with abject relief and relaxed into his seat, resting with his eyes still closed until Dean pulled over.

Sam cleaned himself and Dean's hand up with tissues, then finished his Gatorade and took three Advil. Before climbing into the back seat, he leaned over and tentatively kissed Dean.

"Thanks," he said. "It did help. A lot. And..." He hesitated. "Sorry. For all the stuff I said earlier."

"'S okay," Dean responded. "Sorry I called you stupid." As Sam got settled in the back seat, folding his jacket up near his head to use as a pillow, he glanced over his shoulder and said, "I"ll wake you up once we're a couple states away, and I find a good motel. Then we can look for a hunt."

"So I've got that to look forward to - great." Sam closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

_I've had a lot of people ask me why I wear my hair so long. Seriously, a lot. Ellen, Jo, and Ash asked about it when I was first growing it out. Garth and Charlie asked. Other hunters ask when they come by to drop something off or pick something up. If they've seen me before, they comment on how long it's getting, and they don't sound very happy about it._

_A guy actually gave me a lecture today. Either he didn't give me his name or I forgot it. He gave me a box of what I'm guessing are pixies, and those are going to be a total pain in the ass to study, since I can't see them. He used to be a zookeeper, which I guess is close to what I do. He said the men weren't allowed to have long hair at the zoo and the women had to tie theirs back, so they couldn't get caught or grabbed. I usually do tie my hair back when I'm working, but he wasn't impressed. He told me to cut it at least ten times before he left._

_I'm not going to cut it. I don't have to. There is no grand reason why I've grown it out almost to my shoulders. I just like it, and I think I look good._

_Dad never let it get past my ears when he was alive because it didn't fit with the life. His words. I'm not in the life anymore and he's gone, so there's no reason to chop it off._

_\- Personal journal of Sam Winchester_

* * *

Sam watched with mounting dread as the tools were laid out, one by one, on the table in front of him. A set of clippers, fresh out of the box and with a brand-new battery installed under the glossy black case. A comb. A pair of scissors, also new. A squirt bottle full of water. A towel. A ruler, for some unfathomable reason. Dean dropped the bag he'd pulled it all out of and started coming around the table. Sam leaned away from him.

"I changed my mind," he said.

"You don't get to change your mind," Dean said. "This was part of the deal. You already promised."

"Let's compromise," Sam said. "I'll put it in a ponytail. Every day. I'll do gel again. I'll wear a - a headwrap."

"Not the same," Dean told him, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. Sam had actually been thinking about getting up, but he couldn't now. "C'mon, Sammy. It's just a haircut. Don't be a little bitch about this." His hand tightened a little, and he warned, "Don't make me hold you in this chair with my mind. 'Cause I can do it, and I will, but neither of us will enjoy it. Just take it like a man."

Fully aware that Dean would make good on that threat if tested, Sam stayed put, although his mouth was feeling drier by the second. It'd been one thing to promise Dean he could cut his hair in the car yesterday, when it'd been looking more and more like he wasn't even going to let Sam hunt anymore, much less start the Trials. It was another entirely to get out of the shower and find Dean getting ready to actually do it. Especially since he'd been laying down plastic trash bags to catch the hair, making it look like he was preparing for a murder.

"But you've done this before, right?" Sam asked. Dean, apparently satisfied he wasn't about to bolt, took his hand off him and reached for the towel.

"Only about a million times," Dean replied as he draped the towel around Sam's shoulders and made sure the ends of his hair weren't tucked underneath. "I've been cutting my own hair since I was about ten."

Sam twisted his head to look up at him. At his hair, specifically. It wasn't a bad cut. If he absolutely had to have short hair, he guessed he wouldn't mind having something like it. Cutting your own hair had to transition over to cutting other people's (Sam assumed; he'd been having Garth trim him for the past seven years, never having gotten the hang of it himself), and Dean would've done it for about twenty years before he died.

Before he died. Sam had been relaxing some, but when he thought that, something clicked for him and his anxiety levels started rising again.

"Did you cut hair in Hell?" he asked. Dean gave him a "what do you think?" look that probably could've made his hair fall out all on its own, if it'd been any more withering. "Well, how 'bout since you've been back?"

"Course not," Dean told him, recovering quickly from how insulted he'd been. "It doesn't grow anymore." He smirked at Sam. "I'm dead."

"Right," Sam said. "So it's been  _two thousand years_  since you cut anybody's hair."

Dean had been moving to pick up the comb and scissors, but that made him stop and think. He looked down at Sam and, unfazed by how intensely he was pretty sure he was staring at him, gave a casual shrug.

"Closer to fifteen hundred than two thousand," he said. "But yeah."

"I think I wanna go to a barber," Sam said.

"If you really wanna waste the money, you can do that next time," Dean said, grabbing the comb and scissors. "'Cause there's gonna be a next time pretty soon. A 'do this short needs a lot of maintenance to look good." He gestured to his own hair. "Today, though, I got this."

"Are you sure?" Sam involuntarily leaned away from him again as he approached. Dean must have had even less patience for him than usual today, because an invisible force suddenly grabbed him, made him straighten up, and held him in place. It wasn't painful or even particularly rough, but it did shock the words out of him for a couple seconds. "'Cause I'd be just fine going to a salon. Or a beauty school."

"You don't think I can do at least as good a job as a beauty school student?" Dean asked him, spreading his hands. "That's actually kind of insulting." Holding the tools, he moved to stand behind Sam, the plastic bags on the floor crunching under his boots. "Seriously, Sam. I haven't forgotten how to do this. It's like riding a bike." He must've transferred either the comb or the scissors to his other hand, because there was a  _click_  of metal against plastic and then he touched Sam's damp hair with an empty hand. "If you'd just trust me and stop wiggling around, I could let you go and just focus totally on your hair."

"Okay," Sam said. "I trust you." He was sure Dean could feel how uneasy he still was, but the telekinetic grip on him relaxed anyway. As Dean picked up a piece of his hair, one near the back, he reminded himself that it was just that. Hair. It'd grow back, and getting rid of it was a small price to pay to close the Gates of Hell. And to get a top-tier demon to help him, too. "Hey, shouldn't I be sitting in front of a mirror?"

"Only mirror we've got's in the bathroom, and it's a little cramped for this," Dean pointed out. The blades of the scissors met through Sam's hair with a wet-sounding  _snip_ , and the ends pattered onto the plastic. A chill ran down his spine, but he didn't flinch, which he was a little proud of himself for. "You can take a look as soon as I'm done and tell me if you want me to make any changes." Another  _snip_. "Speaking of which, I haven't even asked you what you want."

"I don't really care," Sam replied. "Just so long as it looks good and you don't, like, buzz it."

"I won't," Dean assured him. "The clippers are just to clean up your neck and sides." Sam could feel him using the comb now, still snipping busily away and letting the hair fall onto the plastic. "Hey, I could give you a faux hawk. Y'know, shaved sides, longer on top?"

"Uh, yeah, that's okay." Another benefit of cutting his hair, Sam could grudgingly admit, was that he'd be harder to recognize. He didn't need Dean to give him a style that made him stick out even more than he did with long hair.

"It looks better than it sounds, trust me," Dean said. "And the less hair you've got, especially on the sides and back, the safer you're gonna - " He abruptly stopped talking, at almost exactly the same time he cut off another piece of hair. Sam got a bad feeling right away.

"What?" he asked. When Dean didn't answer immediately, he let an edge creep into his voice. "What is it, Dean?"

"Whoops," Dean replied, which did less than nothing to put Sam at ease.

"What d'you mean, 'whoops'?" Sam demanded, starting to twist in his chair to glare up at Dean. Dean stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck.

"Calm down," Dean said. "I can fix it."

"Fix what?" Sam started struggling against Dean's hand again. He didn't want to glare at him anymore. He wanted to get up, go into the bathroom, and take a look at what he'd done. Dean clamped down on him with his telekinesis again, though. "What'd you do?"

"You won't even be able to tell when I'm done." Dean took his hand off Sam and started cutting his hair again, much faster this time. Sam couldn't tell for sure, of course, but it felt like he was taking it off at different lengths. He suddenly stopped again above his right ear. "Crap!"

"Now what?" Sam demanded.

"It was your fault," Dean said. "If I hadn't been distracted making you stay put for five goddamn minutes, I wouldn't've screwed up."

"Oh,  _my_ fault?" Sam asked disbelievingly, a second before he realized that Dean had just admitted to screwing up. "Let go of me. You can at least let me see how bad it is."

"No," Dean said, and Sam could literally hear the stubbornness in his voice. He didn't release his hold on him, or even let him struggle beyond flexing his muscles. Sam might have started to get a little scared if he hadn't been so angry. "I told you. I can fix it."

"The more you say that, the less I believe it," Sam retorted. "And I didn't even really believe it to begin with."

"Don't be a dick." Dean was cutting his hair again, sounding frustrated. Every time the scissors closed, Sam's skin crawled, but it wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. He couldn't move any part of his body but his eyes and his mouth, so he glared at the table. "That's what you're always telling me, right? I'm good at this. Sure, I made a couple mistakes, but it's gonna look fine just as soon as I'm done." After making a cut near Sam's temple and sending dark brown hair raining down past his face and into his lap, he faltered again. Sam sucked in a deep breath. "Might take a little while, though."

"Great," Sam said as sarcastically as he could manage, which was very. There wasn't much he could do at the moment, though, besides sit there, silently fuming, and flinch a little every time Dean swore under his breath or sighed in exasperation. It was just hair, he kept reminding himself. But that calmed him down less with each mistake that Dean made.

Every so often, he asked, "Can you just let me go look? Seriously," or "Could you maybe stop butchering me?" Each time, he was met with the same stony "No."

Dean's psychic grip on him gradually loosened to the point where he could fidget in his seat and tap his fingertips testily against his thigh. He wasn't sure if he was doing it on purpose or if his concentration was just slipping. Either way, he snapped at him every time he moved, and blamed that for the most recent damage he'd done to his hair.

Eventually, Dean just...stopped. Stopped cutting, stopped combing, and stopped bitching at Sam. Sam was able to look over his shoulder to see that he'd lowered the scissors and comb. When he moved his head, it felt lighter, and his hair didn't whisk against his neck. It wasn't supposed to now that it was shorter, but he took it as a bad sign anyway.

Sam let the silence stretch on for nearly a minute, then asked, "Well?"

"Shut up," Dean replied. "I'm just figuring out what to do."

"Thought you said you could fix whatever you did."

"I  _can_ ," Dean responded fiercely. "I'm just..." Another long pause. "Not quite sure how to do it."

"All right, that's it." Sam struggled against Dean's weakened psychic hold for the first time in a while. He was expecting the same result, but this time, either he broke Dean's grip or he just let him go. "You're done. And I'm going to the bathroom to see just  _what_ you did."

"Fine." As Sam got up, dumping hair out of his lap and onto the floor, he saw Dean dramatically spin away from him. "It's not finished, though, so of course it's gonna look bad."

Sam didn't even bother saying that it was at least finished being worked on by Dean as he made a beeline for the bathroom. His head felt much lighter than he was used to, sans the piles of hair that littered the plastic Dean had put down. And that wouldn't've been so worrying on its own, but he could also feel a breeze against exposed parts of his scalp, and little sprigs waving merrily as he speedwalked. He braced himself for a disaster, but still wound up shocked into paralysis when he finally got in front of the bathroom mirror.

He gripped the yellowed laminate countertop with both hands, knuckles aching from the strain, and stared blankly as he tried to process. It hadn't even occurred to him to turn on the light, but what filtered in from the room was more than enough to see by.

It was just hair. He knew that. It didn't really matter, and it'd grow back.

But it was  _his_ hair, and Dean had  _ruined_ it.

Sam's first thought was that he looked like Cynthia. Angelica's doll in the  _Rugrats_ cartoons he'd grown up with. He dismissed that a second later, though, because it wasn't entirely accurate. His head was still mostly covered with hair. Mostly. The problem was that it was just all different lengths, from nearly as long as it'd been to begin with to short, stiff stubble. Sections that weren't long enough to lay flat or short enough not to be noticeable stuck out at all angles, trembling as he sucked in breath after deep breath in an effort not to completely lose it. To make it all one uniform length, it'd have to be shaved practically down to the skin.

It looked like he'd stuck his finger in a light socket, right after getting run over by a lawnmower.

Sam raised a hand to his head and ran it over the whole mess. It even felt bad, with all the opposing lengths. The bristles. The rough cuts where Dean must have been hurrying. There was also a lot of loose hair up there that hadn't sifted down yet, but that problem was so easily fixed compared to all the others that Sam barely noticed it.

A sound outside the bathroom somehow registered, and Sam dropped his hand and turned his head to see Dean standing a couple yards away from the door. He must've put down the tools, because his arms were folded over his chest and his hands were empty. He also had an expression on his face so sheepish it almost looked exaggerated.

"Are you really that upset about it?" he asked. Dean was the empath, not him, so Sam just raised both eyebrows, practically to his jagged-feeling hairline. Dean winced a little, then grunted. "Ooh."

"Gonna make fun of me now?" Sam demanded. He hadn't intended for it to come out as sharp as it did, but he'd rather be angry than on the verge of tears. Dean really wouldn't be able to resist then. "Add some insult to injury?"

"No," Dean said, then surprised Sam by adding, "I get it, actually."

Sam stared at him, sure that there was more to the story than that. So after a few seconds, Dean sighed heavily, then elaborated.

"I told you how pissed Alastair was that I went looking for my old body," he began. It sounded like it was going to be a story of a decent length, which Sam wasn't exactly in the mood for, but he stayed quiet and listened anyway. "And how much work I put into fixing it up. You got why. Other demons didn't, of course, but they figured out that the quickest way to get under my skin - literally - was by messing it up, either out of the blue or when I was training with one of 'em." He grimaced at the memory. "Pissed me off like you wouldn't believe when they ripped my lips off, or caved my skull in, or popped one of my eyes out. And of course I wasn't hardly ever allowed to kill them. So I get it."

Sam didn't say anything. Dean shrugged, maybe a little too forcefully.

"If you need the moral of the story spelled out for you," he said, "you wanna look how you think you should look. That's important. And it sucks when somebody messes it up. I shouldn't've kept going after I made that first mistake, and I probably shouldn't've even tried in the first place. Had no idea what I was doing anymore." His shoulders slumped, incrementally. The movement was so small that Sam probably wouldn't have even seen it if he hadn't been giving him his full attention. "I just...really thought I could do it."

"It's - okay," Sam said with difficulty. Dean just sort of squinted at him, so he repeated himself. It came out easier the second time. "It's okay."

"Is it really?" Dean asked, sounding very unconvinced.

"Yeah. It is." Sam meant it. He was still upset, and very confused about just how Dean had managed to mess him up as badly as he had, but he was also pretty sure he'd done his best on this. He didn't want him to stop doing things he'd been good at when he was human just because this one hadn't worked out. After all, it wasn't like he'd actually hurt him. And he'd really, really needed a haircut. "Thank you for trying."

Dean let out a disbelieving little chuckle at that, so Sam closed the distance between them. Dean watched him warily, like he was afraid he was gonna start spouting an exorcism ritual, but Sam just put his arms around him and tucked his mess of a head in beside Dean's. A second later, Dean returned the hug, and Sam struggled not to wince as dozens of hot little pinpricks lit up all over his torso. He had a lot of hair down his shirt.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled into his ear. Sam appreciated the apology, and him admitting he was wrong. He knew it had to be tough for him to set his pride aside...something he could fully relate to.

"It's okay," Sam repeated. "Don't suppose you could regrow my hair with your demon mojo, though?"

"Sorry," Dean said again, and Sam sighed. "Doesn't really work that way."

"Yeah...I didn't think so." He kind of wanted to know why it didn't work that way (could Dean not regenerate dead tissue? Would he have to make Sam age to make his hair grow?), but asking Dean researcher-type questions seemed to annoy him, so he just kept it to himself.

"I  _can_  take you to somebody who actually knows how to cut hair, though," Dean told him, breaking the hug and pulling back so he could look up at him. "I'll go out and scout around for a place that takes walk-ins. You hungry I could get you lunch while I'm at it."

It was a little early for lunch, seeing as Sam had just had breakfast before getting in the shower. So he shook his head. "That's okay."

"D'you want...I could blow you," Dean said seriously. His arms were still loosely around Sam, but one hand crept to his front, sneaking under his shirt to rest on the buckle of his belt. "Apology BJ. Lemme blow you."

Even though that was about the least romantic offer for oral sex Sam'd ever received, he was still tempted. He couldn't take Dean up on it, though. It wouldn't feel right. He got why he was being so eager to please, but he'd already forgiven him. No need to keep him on the hook.

"No," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you got me a hat, though. To cover up... _this_ on the way to the hair place." He gestured to his head. "Dandelion. How'd you even - ?"

"I don't know," Dean said, throwing up his hands and turning away. He didn't comment on Sam bastardizing his Knight name as he headed for the door; maybe he though he deserved it. "I'm not sure how, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my editors, sweetyaoi and TookMeASecond!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my editors sweetyaoi, TookMeASecond, and malphigus!

_Demons are easily one of the most dangerous monsters you'll face. They're intelligent, they can be anyone, and even the lowest tiers have psychic powers, like teleportation and telekinesis. Then there's the fact that, unlike a lot of other things, they kill purely for fun, not for food._

_It used to be a hunter could go years without coming across a demon. Demon cases were rare, and possession cases even rarer. Hell's become more active recently, though. Crossroads deals and demon activity are both way up, and there are more and more high-level demons around. No one is really sure why, but on the small scale, it doesn't matter._

_I would not recommend going into your first demon hunt solo, no matter how much research you've done or how many other hunts you've managed on your own. I can't understate the importance of an experienced partner, even if you're only after a crossroads demon. Which will be bound by more rules and regulations than a black-eyed demon, and so ostensibly easier to hunt._

_Nothing's ever really_ easy  _when it comes to demons, though. You should also be aware of your limits. If there are two or more demons working in tandem, leave. If it seems more powerful than it should be, leave. If it has white or yellow eyes, definitely leave. We'll look into the different castes of demons and how to distinguish them later._

_There's no shame in calling for help, or just walking away from something you know you can't handle. Especially demons._

_-_ Demons and Other Biblical Monsters, _Sam Winchester_

* * *

_Walk-ins WELCOME!_ the front door of the barbershop proclaimed in large white letters. The glass was frosted and the same went for the large front window, so Sam couldn't see inside. He turned to Dean.

"So you checked this place out?" he asked him. "It looks good? Clean?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it looks fine. And when I was here last, there was a guy coming out with a great haircut." He stepped forward and pushed the door open. "At this point, I would've thought you'd be okay with anybody who isn't me fixing your hair."

Sam grunted noncommittally as he followed Dean in. The place was long and narrow, and it certainly looked clean. It was well-lit, with a checkerboard pattern on the floor, jars of Barbicide at every station, and mirrored walls. It smelled good, too: soap and something herbal-y, maybe a certain kind of shampoo. Only a few of the chairs were occupied, and an older guy without a customer approached as soon as they entered.

"Hey, there," he said, and offered a hand for Dean to shake, then Sam. He had a firm grip, his hand dry and cool. "I'm Jake. What can I do you for?"

Sam took a long, deep breath, then reached up to pull off the black stocking cap Dean had gotten him. It was cold enough that he didn't mind wearing it. He'd probably keep it even after he got his hair cleaned up.

As soon as that was off, Jake whistled, long and low. All the other barbers and customers in the shop turned to look, and Sam felt his face begin to heat up as brows rose and eyes widened.

"Oh boy," Jake said. "Lemme guess. Little one got at the scissors?"

"Something like that." Sam glanced at Dean, who scowled back.

"If it makes you feel any better, this isn't the worst case I've ever seen," Jake said, gesturing him towards a chair. Sam sank into it. As he draped a cape over him and fastened it at his neck, Jake paused. "It's close. But not the worst."

"Can you fix it?" Sam asked. At this point, a halfway-decent fix was all he wanted.

"Well, I can't make your hair grow back, but I'll definitely do what I can with what I have," Jake replied. Sam watched in the mirror in front of him as he put his hands on his head, tugging on one of the okay-er sections of his hair, one about two inches long. "So what I'll do is cut most of it back to this length, then I'll show you how to style it to cover up these really short spots." He pointed to an area where Dean had gotten down almost to his scalp.

"Okay. That sounds good."

"Your friend can go sit over by the door, if he wants." Jake looked at Dean, who turned slowly around and headed for the small waiting area near the entrance. "You washed your hair recently?"

"Yeah, just this morning."

"We can go ahead and get started, then." Jake leaned around Sam in order to grab a spray bottle off his station, then began misting his hair with it. The exposed parts of his scalp tingled. "So. I've never seen you boys before. You new in town?"

"Just passing through," Sam said. "But yeah."

Jake grunted. "Well, you couldn't've picked a worse time, I've gotta be honest."

That took Sam by surprise. "Why d'you say that?"

"Well." Sam could hear the blades of Jake's scissors meeting even above the gentle murmur of the other customers having conversations with their barbers, and he had to fight not to flinch even though he could feel that he wasn't taking off nearly as much as Dean had. "I'm not a gossip, understand? I'm not gonna tell you anything you couldn't find out yourself by picking up a copy of the local paper. But we've got a killer on the loose."

"Oh, wow," Sam said, instincts immediately perking up at that. He couldn't see Dean without moving his head, but he was sure he could hear, and that he was having the same reaction. Murders were ordinary, sometimes. Most of the time. But sometimes they weren't, and if there'd been anything weird about this one that hinted at something supernatural, Sam expected Jake to tell him. "Really?"

"Yep," Jake replied. "Local family. Father owned the hardware store; he's missing. Mother taught at the high school two towns over, and they had three kids. Oldest just started middle school, youngest was barely outta diapers." A comb ran through Sam's mutilated hair, pulling the wet ends free and sending them raining down on his plastic cape. Jake had to have noticed the scabby area on the back of his head where hair had been pulled out, and the lump on the side, seeing as he was careful about both of them, but he didn't say anything. "All dead."

"Oh my god." Sam didn't think he was very good with kids. But it was still like a shot to the gut when they died, every time. "The - just the kids, or the mom, too?"

"The mom, too," Jake said grimly. He didn't sound like he was enjoying relaying this information. More like it was a duty he held himself to. "Butchered."

"So...it was the dad?"

Jake sighed heavily. Looking in the mirror in front of him, Sam saw him shaking his head.

"I've known Frank - that's his name - since kindergarten," he said, "and I couldn't ever imagine him doing that kinda thing to anyone, least of all his own family. But...well, it don't look good, do it?"

"No," Sam admitted, "I guess it doesn't."

He wished he could tell Jake it probably hadn't been Frank who'd done it, but he didn't. It was more likely something else had killed Frank's family and taken him. Sam just didn't know what, since grown men weren't usually in high demand for anything, no matter the creature.

He also might've been possessed. So there was that, too.

"That's awful," Sam sympathized, after he'd realized nearly a minute had passed with nothing but the snipping of scissors.

"Sure is," Jake agreed. "Whole town's torn up over it. You don't come back from something like this. And even if you do, it takes years. Decades, maybe."

He fell silent for a while, focusing on Sam's hair. Looking in the mirror, Sam couldn't help but notice how much better it was, which drained some tension out of his shoulders that he hadn't even known he was still holding onto. Most of the sprigs were gone, at least.

"As if that wasn't bad enough," he said after a while, "we've had a whole rash of dead cows. Not enough to really hurt, but this is a cattle town. Makes people uneasy."

Sam made eye contact in the mirror, asking, "How'd they die?"

"Badly," Jake told him. "Ripped wide open. Must be wolves. We're a ways from Yellowstone, but they've got so many of the damn things there, and I've heard how they roam." He smirked humorlessly down at Sam's hair. "Hell. Or maybe it's Frank."

"Have you had any lightning storms around here lately?" Sam asked, the pieces falling into place for him.

"Oh...well, I don't know," Jake said. "Although, now you mention it, I guess we have. I remember thinking it was unusual 'cause we usually get 'em in the summer, not fall." He began to comb Sam's hair again. "Why d'you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Mm."

Sam could tell the old barber didn't believe him.

Jake finished cutting his hair. He blew it out with a hairdryer, put some gel in it, then combed it artfully. Sam watched closely, trying to memorize his movements so that he could do it himself later, and couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it stopped looking awful and started looking good. It definitely happened, though.

Jake gave Sam a hand mirror and spun him around so that he could see the whole thing, including the back. A close-cropped fade led up into hair about the same length as Dean's, but styled in a wave rather than standing up and forward, to hide the damage Jake hadn't been able to fix with his scissors. It was a different cut from what he'd had when he was younger. More flattering.

He was surprised by how dark it looked, something he hadn't noticed back in the motel room. He'd always been a dark brunette, but his hair had lightened in the sun, just like everybody's did. This short, it was nearly black, no sign of any of the subtle hints of red, gold, and caramel he'd gotten used to.

His face looked different without hair framing it. He hardly recognized himself, but that was a good thing. Other people wouldn't be able to, either.

"Look good?"

"Yeah - great." Sam handed the mirror back with a smile and got to his feet, pausing to let Jake take the cape off him. "Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

"Fifteen even," Jake replied, walking up to the waiting area and the small front desk beside it. Sam followed, blinking as Dean noticed them and stood up. He wasn't super familiar with haircuts or anything, but he felt like that was low even for a cheap one.

"Are you sure?" he asked uncertainly, and Jake snorted.

"Your hair was a disaster," he said bluntly. "All I did was clean it up best I could. I'm not gonna charge you full price for that." He stepped behind the desk and Sam automatically reached into his pocket to grab his wallet. An invisible hand closed on his wrist, though, and he glanced over at Dean, who'd come up next to him and was pulling a twenty out of his own wallet.

"I got this," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Looked like he was still feeling guilty. To Jake, he said, "Keep the change. Thanks."

As they walked back out to the car, Sam kept moving his head back and forth, getting used to how light his head felt, to not feeling his hair swinging. The back of his neck was cold.

"So you feel better now?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I know it's dumb, but I really do."

"I told you it's not dumb," Dean replied. "I should've just brought you here in the first place."

"Well, now we know." Sam grabbed the handle on the passenger door, but didn't pull it open just yet, looking at Dean over the top of the car. "By the way. I don't suppose the cattle mutilations and lightning storms are because of you?"

Dean scowled at him. "Of course not. Unlike  _some_  demons out there, I can control myself. I've got loads of self-control." He climbed into the car, and Sam followed him. "Plus, I'm a Knight. If I let myself go, you wouldn't have these ordinary, run-of-the-mill demon signs. You'd have, like..." He gestured wildly with one hand. "Rivers full of blood. Plagues of locusts." The car roared to life. "Everybody's firstborn dying."

Sam squinted at him. "I think I read about something like that happening once, but there definitely weren't any Knights of Hell involved."

"Writer must've left that part out, then, 'cause that's what happens." Dean backed out of the parking space. Once they were on the road, heading back to the motel, he looked at him. "Seriously, though. Does sound like there's a demon in the area, doesn't it?"

"Can you sense it?" Sam asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean anything," Dean replied. "Might be outta my range. Or if it's strong enough to make cows explode all on its own, it could be shielding itself from me...which'd be a problem, since that'd mean it knows we're here." It wasn't far from the barbershop to the motel, so they were already pulling into the parking lot. Dean brought the car to a stop right in front of their door, then killed the engine and gave Sam his full attention. "So, we got a couple options here. We can either get outta town, or we can stay put and hunt this thing."

Sam was honestly surprised that hunting it was even an option. He would've expected Dean to want to make tracks, no questions asked, as soon as he knew there was a demon around. Dean, picking up on that surprise, addressed it.

"I'm less worried about demons - 'specially just one low-ish demon, which is what this looks like - than I am about a lot of other monsters," he told him. "I know how to handle other demons. We ain't gonna get very far in the Trials if you don't get used to dealing with 'em, and this case basically just fell in our laps." He shrugged. "It's up to you, though. I wouldn't blame you, if you're not comfortable going after a demon for your second hunt."

"No," Sam immediately assured him. "I wanna do this. Three people are already dead and the vessel's life is gonna be ruined even if we manage to exorcise the demon. I wouldn't feel right walking away. Plus, like you said, it fell in our laps." They hadn't had time to look for another hunt since rolling into this tiny Idaho town. Sam had just been too tired last night and his hair had taken up most of this morning. "Let's just take care of this thing. Then...hellhounds."

Sam had been expecting Dean to object to that. He wasn't sure why, seeing as he was the one who'd made the new rules. It was a relief anyway, though, when he nodded in agreement.

"All right," he said, getting out of the car. "Hopefully this'll be a short one. Let's suit up and head down to the sheriff's office."

"Yeah." Sam followed suit, grabbing his fake FBI badge out of the glove compartment before closing the car door. As Dean unlocked their motel room, he flipped the leather cover open just to make sure the badge itself was still in there. Seeing his own picture, something occurred to him, and he frowned. "Oh. Shoot."

"What's the matter?" Dean glanced over his shoulder at him as he pushed the motel roomdoor open.

"I don't really look like my picture anymore," Sam said. "We're gonna have to get a new one."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the badge, then shrugged. "You're right, but we're not gonna worry about that 'til we're done here. Like I told you earlier, most people don't look too closely at it, and if anybody asks, just tell 'em the truth: you got a haircut." He waved Sam into the room, and Sam went. "It still looks like you. You've got plenty of identifying features besides your hair - like these." Cupping Sam's jaw, Dean thumbed one of his moles, the one to the left of his nose. Chuckling, Sam turned his head away from the touch with a smile. "At least your hair looks way more professional now."

"D'you like it?" Sam asked him, pulling the door closed behind them. It was hot and stifling in the room, the heater going full blast. Sam wasn't sure if Dean had turned it up, his human frailty in mind, or if it was just like that. "I mean, does it look good?" The question came out less casually than he'd wanted it to.

"It looks awesome," Dean told him. He turned away, heading for his duffel bag. "Way better than what I did to it...not that that's a high bar."

Sam sighed. "Dean, c'mon. I let it go. You're gonna have to - " He cut himself off abruptly when his phone began buzzing and jingling in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting to see Garth's name. Instead, though, there was a number he didn't recognize. He hesitated to answer it.

"Well?" Dean asked him as his phone kept ringing in his hand.

"I don't know who it is," Sam replied.

"...so?"

Dean had died before caller ID had become commonplace, and even though Sam had done his best to explain it to him, he still didn't get why it was such a big deal. He had a point now, though; might as well try and figure out who was calling him. Reluctantly, Sam answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, bitch," the person on the other end of the line said cheerfully. Sam grinned.

"Charlie!" He'd been wondering when she was going to call him, since Garth had said she needed a new phone and he'd pass along Sam's number as soon as she got it. He might've been worried about not hearing from her if there hadn't been so much else to stress out about. "Hey! How are - wow, it's good to hear from you. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm okay," Charlie said. "Can't complain. I'm obviously not doing as well as  _you_ , though - your leg's all fixed up, you're closing the Gates of Hell,  _and_  you've got a hot demon boyfriend? Nice, Sam! About time you had some good luck."

Feeling a blush coming on, Sam turned away from Dean, able to tell from his wide grin that he could hear Charlie's side of the conversation just fine. "So Garth filled you in, huh?"

"He did," Charlie confirmed, "but I thought I'd check in with you myself, anyway. And tell you how, um...happy I am to have an explanation. Finally."

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly. "I should've called a whole lot sooner than I did, and I know what happened with me has made things way harder for you guys."

"Sam?" Charlie asked. "Hey. Garth filled me in. So that means I know what you did, and why you did it. You did the right thing. Your life was in danger, and besides, closing Hell up forever is way more important than exorcising one Knight." Carefully, she added, "If it'd been me, though, I'm not sure I would've also gotten with that Knight..." and Sam laughed.

"Yeah," he said.

"Sooo...what's he like?" Charlie wanted to know.

"Well..." Sam left Dean laying out their suits on the bed and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Dean could definitely still hear him, but the illusion of privacy was better than nothing. "He's not like other demons. And I  _know_  demons, you know I do. You do, too. He's got a really wide range of emotions. I've seen him feel guilty, and worry about me. He does that last one all the time."

"I'm not gonna ask if you think he could be faking it," Charlie said.

"It's always a possibility," Sam admitted, not pointing out how she'd basically just asked it anyway, "but no. I don't. I've seen demons act and lie before, but they can only keep it up for so long before their true nature comes out. I'm with him practically twenty-four-seven and he's...I don't know, kinda demon, kinda human the whole time."

"'Kinda demon'?" Charlie pressed, sounding concerned by that.

"Night before last, he literally shook the head off a ghoul," Sam explained.

"That'd beat you up and threatened to eat you from the edges in!" Dean suddenly yelled through the door. Sam took the phone away from his ear so Charlie could hear him.

"He's listening?" Charlie asked once Sam put the phone back to his face.

"Kinda hard for him not to."

"Sorry," Dean said. "Want me to leave?"

"You're fine," Sam told him. "I'm almost done. Could you put some salt rounds in the shotguns if there aren't already?" To Charlie, he said, "I'm sorry. We're hunting right now, but - god, am I glad you called."

"Me, too," Charlie said. "Glad I got to talk to you." A pause. "I really missed you." Sam felt another flicker of the familiar guilt. "I'll go ahead and let you go. Can I call back later?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, making a mental note to save Charlie's number under her name as soon as the call ended. "I'd like that."

Charlie didn't hang up, though. Instead, after a long beat of silence, she said, "Garth told me you were gonna check in with all of us regularly. You better do that."

"I will," Sam promised. He'd said he'd try to do once a week. Mondays might be good.

"I'd really like to catch up with you in person sometimes, too," Charlie continued. "Meet your boyfriend...find out why you never told me you were into men..."

"You never asked!" Sam went and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. "But..." He heard the room's door open and shut, and assumed Dean had gone outside to get weapons out of the trunk of the car. So he went ahead and admitted, "Dean's the first guy I've actually...y'know. Slept with."

Dean already knew, but Sam still felt more comfortable saying it when he knew he (probably) couldn't hear.

"Shut up. No way." Charlie sounded surprised. "Is...he gentle?"

"I mean, when I want him to be...d'you really want those kinds of details?" Sam asked her. "Especially over the phone?"

"Right. Sorry." She paused. "You know you can call me if you ever need anything, right?"

"I know," Sam replied. "Thanks. And I really would like to get together; I'm just busy right now, and I'm sure you are, too."

There was another silence, one that felt awkward to Sam. Then Charlie spoke up again.

"So, you aren't worried that he - " she began.

"No," Sam interrupted. He appreciated their concern, and he definitely understood it, and if the situation had been reversed and it'd been Garth or Jo or Charlie with a Knight of Hell for an SO, he likely would've had plenty of his own. All the same, he was getting tired of defending his relationship with Dean. "I'm not worried. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. And if anything ever happens, you'll be the first person I call. Or Garth. One of you, I promise."

Hoping Dean was still outside (the door hadn't opened again but he could've teleported back in), Sam leaned back against the tank of the toilet and put his free hand on the opposite bicep. "But for now, I feel perfectly safe with him. I know he's not gonna hurt me, and while he's around, it's pretty unlikely anything else is gonna hurt me, either."

"And he healed you," Charlie acknowledged.

"And he healed me," Sam agreed.

"Okay. I'm sorry." Sam listened for hints of insincerity in her voice, but couldn't find any. "Good luck with your hunt. I'll talk to you later."

"All right, Charlie," Sam replied. "Thanks for calling - again, it was great to talk to you."

He hung up and left the bathroom, creating a new contact with Charlie's name and number on his phone as he did. Dean came back into the room at almost the same time he finished, two sawed-offs broken over one arm and a battered, masking-taped box of ammo in his other hand.

"So we should have enough salt rounds for this hunt, but we better make more after we're done," Dean said, laying the weapons out on the bed next to their suits. "Your dad teach you how to do that?"

"I probably made most of the ones in that box you're holding." Sam nodded to it.

"Awesome." Dean turned to him. "How'd your talk with your friend go?"

"Fine," Sam answered, then smirked a little painfully. "But everyone still thinks you're out to screw me, and not in the good way."

"In their defense," Dean pointed out, "that does sound like something I'd do. Or any other demon." He stepped out of his shoes, then looked at Sam. "I promise I'm not, though."

"I know that," Sam replied, setting his phone aside for the moment and taking his own shoes off. "Why else d'you think I'm going on a demon hunt with you?"

Dean turned to look at him, smiling. It was so genuine it almost looked goofy, and he seemed to realize that at the same time Sam did, dropping the smile and looking quickly away again as if embarrassed.

"Speaking of that. You ready to go?"

"Just as soon as I get dressed." Sam picked up his suit jacket. "Like you said: let's hope this is a short one."


	9. Chapter 9

_They are more organized now than we have ever seen them before. Demon cases only pop up every once in awhile, we all know. They work alone. Crossroads demons and hellhounds are rare. We maybe see a Lord or a Prince once every hundred years._

_But things are different now. There is a clear chain of command, and there are patterns. They are trying to take over our world. No one knows why, but it is up to all of us to be on the lookout._

_What happens is that first, a scout or two moves into a new area that isn't completely overrun with demons yet. Keep an eye out for signs of a possession, and for murders. Demons love to kill and they use human blood to communicate. Ask the Winchester kid if you have any questions about that._

_We do not know what the scouts are looking for, but other demons move in after they have been there for a while. Sometimes crossroads demons start making deals without being summoned. Sometimes it is just regular grunts. They possess people and occupy the area. Murders and rapes and all crimes go up. Sometimes the big boss comes through eventually. A Prince or a Lord. The place is a total loss if that happens._

_Our best bet is to kill the scout before it calls in all its friends. There are some useful phone numbers at the end if you find one and do not think you can take it out alone. We are at war and we need everybody on board. If you aren't with us then you are against us, and that makes you as bad as a demon._

_\- e-mail sent to multiple members of the American and Canadian hunting communities, Gordon Walker_

* * *

The first thing Sam pulled out of the evidence locker, after they'd flashed their fake badges and the sheriff had brought them back to it, was a large butcher knife, sealed in a plastic bag and labeled. "I'm guessing that's the murder weapon...one of them, at least." Next was a throw pillow that'd been stabbed through and stained with blood on one side, probably used as a shield by one of the victims. Then a hammer. Then, finally, a manila folder full of glossy crime scene photographs. "Here we go."

"So it was definitely a demon," Dean commented, picking up the knife Sam had set aside. Sam glanced at him as he walked over to the desk, seeing him lift the bag to his nose and take a deep sniff. "They washed all this stuff, but it still reeks of sulfur."

"Can you tell what kind it was?" Sam asked, hoping the sheriff didn't come back right then. He'd left to grab the report for them.

"Not by smelling."

"Then come over here and help me look at these pictures." Sam began to spread them out on the desk. The sheriff's department clearly hadn't used the latest camera or anything, but they'd been thorough, documenting what looked like the entire house. They'd also unflinchingly captured all three bodies from multiple angles, getting as much detail as possible. Sam let his eyes skate over those. "Maybe we'll find something."

Dean joined him at the desk, and Sam left him alone for a second to take the official report from the sheriff when he returned.

"Look at this," Dean said as Sam came back over to the desk, eyes fixed on one of the pictures. He'd swept most of the others to the side and some had wound up on the floor.

"What?"

In answer, Dean pointed at the photo. Sam looked, then grimaced. It was one of Frank's wife. She'd been savagely sliced open from clavicle to pubic bone, then rolled over so she was lying in a pile of her own shredded internal organs. Her open-mouthed rictus and bulging eyes indicated it'd all happened while she was still alive.

"Yeah?" Sam's eyes flicked away. Just because he'd seen worse didn't mean he wanted to look for any longer than he had to. Dean put a steadying hand on the small of his back. "What about her?"

"No, not her." Dean didn't sound all that bothered. " _That_."

Swallowing to ward off the creeping nausea, Sam forced himself to look past the corpse and focus on what Dean was pointing at. The bottom shelf of a bookcase was just barely visible in the corner of the picture, and something dark and vaguely cup-shaped was sitting on it. The lighting was bad and it was blurry, so Sam couldn't really make it out. He squinted and moved his face closer to the photo, which didn't help much.

"Is that...a vase?"

"It's an infernal goblet." Dean took his finger off the picture.

_"Oh,"_ Sam blurted. Now that Dean had pointed it out for him, what he'd thought was dark glass was clearly black metal, and the fuzzy shadows coalesced into screaming faces. "So we know it was talking to other demons."

"Well, yeah, that's the basic thing," Dean agreed. "But these days, one demon in an area like this with a goblet? It's a scout."

Sam glanced at him. He was studying the other pictures intently. "Like...the one I killed outside my cabin?"

"Exactly." Dean tapped his nose. "The goal's to control as big an area as possible. Don't ask me why, I was in charge of a lot of it but nobody told me anything anyway." He grinned. "Guess they didn't trust me. We send in a grunt with some training and experience. He sends us intel for a few weeks or months, and has himself a little fun while he's at it, because why not?" He looked at the pictures again. "Usually we don't want 'em going hog-wild like this, but you can't trust most further than you can throw them. Case in point: Cory."

"Okay, I can see that." Sam nodded. "So we're dealing with a weaker demon for sure?"

"Oughtta be. But..." Dean's eyebrows drew together, and he took his hand off Sam's back as he dropped into the desk's cheap swivel chair. "That doesn't explain why I can't feel it if it's in the area, though. And I'm kinda wondering what a scout's doing this far west. I mean, I haven't been gone that long. They can't have pushed past the Great Lakes." He looked up at Sam and stated, "I'm starting to not like this very much, Sam. I gotta tell you."

Arms folded over his chest, Sam stared down at Dean. It was so obvious how good at this he was. The attention to detail, the reasoning, the caution...just so long as Sam ignored the mentions of leading an army from Hell and sensing other demons, he could see what Dean must have been like as a human hunter. It took him completely by surprise, although not in a bad way.

"What's that goofy look for?" Dean wanted to know.

"Nothing." Sam looked away. "Does this mean you wanna leave?"

"Nah." Dean picked up the picture again, the one with the goblet in it. "We both chose this hunt, and we're gonna see it through. We just gotta be careful." His eyes darted up to Sam's. "And make sure this thing doesn't call in reinforcements before we kill it."

"Maybe it doesn't have reinforcements." They hadn't discussed Hell's plans or movements much. Dean wasn't volunteering any information and Sam didn't want to risk bringing up bad memories. Tentatively, he asked, "Is every single demon involved in this, or are there still...rogue ones out there? Loners, doing whatever they want."

"You mean like me?" Dean asked with half a smirk. "Yeah, there are plenty, and they were a real pain in my ass back when I was a commander. But none of them would have one of these." He tapped the goblet again.

"All right," Sam conceded. "So I'm thinking we read this report and then go check out the crime scene." He shook the report, still in his hand, so that the many dozens of pages flapped. Dean eyed it like it was an exorcism rite. "We just need to skim it. I'll do it if you want me to."

"I'd sure appreciate it." Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Doubt the demon'll be at the house, but if we're lucky, it'll be close. Especially if the goblet's still there. It'd have to be using it as a home base then."

"That should probably be the first thing we look for, then," Sam noted. "But what if we don't find the scout and the goblet's not there anymore?"

"Then it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack." Dean sighed. "Except worse, 'cause the needle's on the move and we're gonna be boned if it finds us before we find it. Can't even use a tracking spell 'cause we don't know the name." He shook his head, moving towards the door. Sam followed him. "But we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. I'll do my best to try and figure out where it is in the meantime."

* * *

"Figuring out where it is" involved, near as Sam could tell, a kind of meditation. Dean had to sit perfectly still, black eyes closed, in a quiet room, and focus entirely on his senses, scouring the area around them for any trace of demonic energy. The hope was that he'd be able to tell where the scout was, generally speaking, even if it was cloaking itself.

Sam was badly tempted to tease him about it. He ran now rather than meditating, himself, but the one time he'd brought it up, Dean had brushed it off as "hippie shit." But this was important and Sam had to read the sheriff's report, so he just stayed quiet.

They wound up on the bed, Dean sitting up against the headboard and Sam directly between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Dean's arms rested loosely around his waist as he paged through the report. It was comfortable, despite the fact that Sam was taller than Dean and Dean was essentially unconscious.

Dean breathed every once in a while (Sam guessed it was a reflex or something), and Sam felt the warm air on the back of his neck, ruffling the little hairs there that'd been buzzed short. It was an unfamiliar sensation, reminding him over and over again that his hair wasn't long anymore.

The sheriff's report was as thorough as the pictures had been, describing what'd been done to the victims in excruciating detail, but it didn't tell Sam anything that he didn't know already. He set it aside and twisted around to look at Dean. His eyes were still closed and his face was blank, so he must still be looking.

"This is probably the closest you're ever gonna get to sleep, huh?" Sam asked, aware Dean couldn't hear him. He laid back against him, resting his head on his shoulder and closing his eyes as he breathed in shampoo, laundry detergent, and an edge of sulfur. The rest of today was probably going to be tough. Might as well try to enjoy the moment.

It figured that Sam had just barely gotten comfortable when Dean suddenly jerked back to life. His arms tightened around Sam and he sat straight up, growling under his breath and shaking his head like he was trying to clear something out of it. Sam twisted free and turned to face him again, sitting down on the mattress a couple feet away.

"So did you find it?" he asked. Dean's eyes were open, and he had to blink a few times before the black finally flicked back into his pupils.

"Christ," he muttered. "I'm never gonna get used to how that feels." He glanced at Sam. "It's in town. Close by, actually. Couldn't narrow it down any more than that. Not sure if it's using runes or charms or its own powers or whatever, but it's shielded pretty good." He caught sight of the report, now sitting on the nightstand. "You find anything interesting in that?"

"No," Sam admitted. "At least we know our guy's here, though, right? We're better off now than we were an hour ago."

"Well, that's true," Dean agreed, "but I thought of something while I was doing demon radar." He'd taken off his overcoat and jacket, but was still wearing his FBI tie, shirt, and slacks. He started undoing the tie as he spoke. "We don't hide ourselves automatically. Even the thing I've got going on right now's a conscious effort on my part." Dean looked up at Sam, tossing his tie aside. "It's expecting somebody to be looking for it. Not hunters, either. Only angels and other demons and monsters can sense us like that."

"So...what're you saying?" Sam grabbed his backpack. "They're looking for you?"

"Either that or we've got an angel infestation," Dean replied with a shrug. "So I sure hope they're looking for me." He flashed a grin at Sam, but it didn't last long. "I figured they'd be keeping an eye out for me, with all the time and effort they put into making me. At the very least, I know Alastair's gonna wanna kill me himself." He unzipped his duffel bag and began to dig through it, frowning. "Why the hell do I have so many of your flannels?"

"'Cause you keep  _taking_  them when you do laundry," Sam pointed out dryly. He was pretty sure Dean had tried to be sneaky, but he'd noticed.

"Oh, right." Dean handed a couple over, not looking the least bit sheepish. "I like how big they are. You're freaking huge, you know that?" Sam snorted softly and shook his head. "Anyway. With everything else going down, I seriously doubt they can afford to send any real heavy hitters after me. The ones I sensed back in Montana were probably trying to pick up my trail, and they didn't pack much of a punch. This one's gonna be the same." Dean shook out a crumpled T-shirt. "And even if it ain't specifically on the lookout for me, taking it out's the right thing to do. Which you're all about, aren't you?"

Sam glanced at Dean with a smirk and one raised eyebrow. "Don't try to pretend you're not looking forward to killing another demon." He found his knife and set it carefully aside.

"Make sure you don't forget that," Dean warned.

"I won't, don't worry."

Once they were both decked out in hunting-appropriate clothes, they headed for the crime scene. There was no point in waiting for dark. The victims' house was outside town, they had permission to go in, and if anybody had any questions, they still had their badges handy.

"You ready?" Dean asked Sam as he brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. "We might run into it here, after all."

"Course I am." Sam checked for the tenth time to make sure he had his demon-killing knife. He did, tucked inside his Carhartt. "One less demon in the world, one step closer to closing the Gates of Hell. Let's do this."

"That's my boy." Dean patted him approvingly on the shoulder as they got out of the car and headed up to the house. Standing on the wraparound front porch, Sam sliced through the police tape with the key the sheriff had given him, then unlocked the door.

Sam couldn't help it: he gagged as soon as he opened the door, nausea tightening his throat. The bodies had been cleaned out, of course, but he guessed a clean-up crew hadn't come through yet. So the blood and other fluids had been festering for a while now, soaking into the carpet and floorboards.

As Dean pointed out, though, it wasn't as bad as it could've been. "Good thing it's so cold out, huh? Imagine if this'd happened in August."

Once Sam'd had a chance to get used to the smell, they headed inside. Dean took them to the living room very first. He checked the bookcase that'd been in the picture while Sam stared down at the ugly brown stain in the middle of the floor. He couldn't help thinking about the woman who'd died there, her kids, and the husband who'd had to watch himself tear them apart.

This was the sort of thing demons did, the sort of thing they were good at. It was what came to mind when most hunters thought of them.

Sam wondered how often Dean thought about doing something like this.

"Welp, the goblet's gone." Dean broke him out of his thoughts. "No surprise there."

"Could you have checked the call history if it'd still been here?" Sam was mostly joking, but Dean took him seriously.

"I could've given it a shot, but I've already got a pretty good idea who it was probably talking to," Dean said grimly. He turned towards the kitchen. "Let's check the rest of the house. You mind taking the upstairs? I wanna see if there's anything that might tell - " He stopped abruptly, walking and talking. Sam moved over to him, about to ask him what was wrong when he looked up at the ceiling. "Well, shit."

Sam followed his gaze. The late-afternoon sunlight pouring into the house might've made the devil's trap on the ceiling, drawn in light pencil, hard to see if Sam hadn't already sort of known what he was looking for. It was a variant he'd never seen before, with more complicated symbols than the standard set drawn inside the pentagram.

"Don't freak out, okay?" Dean turned slowly, hands out in front of him to test the boundaries of the trap. "I'll be out of here in just a minute."

"I think I'll be okay," Sam replied dryly. They probably should have expected something like this. As long as the scout didn't show up, they were fine. "Why don't you just walk out? You used to walk through the ones at my cabin all the time."

"I know, but this one's stronger than a normal devil's trap," Dean said, frowning up at it. "Like I said, it's gonna take me a minute to push outta here." He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "You wanna go ahead and go upstairs?"

Sam hesitated. "I don't know about that. I don't wanna leave you."

"Sam. C'mon." Turning to face him, Dean spread his arms wide. "Badass demon hunter here - literal demon. I'll be fine; this thing can't hold me long." He dropped his arms. "If it makes you feel better, though, you can go grab me the salt gun outta the car."

"I'm gonna do that," Sam stated. "Yell if you need anything, okay?"

"Thanks, Mom." Dean lifted a hand, rested it on an invisible wall. "I'll probably be outta here by the time you get back."

It was cold outside, the temperature dropping as the sun began to set. The thin, frosty layer of snow on the ground shone fiery orange, making Sam squint when he went to open the trunk. He picked up the shotgun they'd loaded with salt rounds earlier, along with a box of extra ammo and a can of spray paint. Might as well make some devil's traps of their own.

"So, do you still like your haircut?"

Sam started, nearly banging his head on the lid of the trunk. He pulled back and straightened up, looking towards the source of the voice. Gravel crunched as a man walked towards him, hands in the pockets of his jeans. It took Sam a second to recognize him, partly because the sun was in his eyes: Jake. The guy who'd fixed his hair.

Sam didn't answer. Just brought the gun up and aimed it directly at Jake's face, dropping the paint and the bullets so he could steady the short barrel with his other hand. Jake stopped dead in his tracks, throwing both hands up and looking utterly shocked.

"Whoa there, son." His voice was low and soothing, like he was trying to calm Sam down. "I don't - I don't want any trouble, trust me." He eyed the gun. "Is that thing even legal?"

"Don't worry, it's loaded with rock salt," Sam replied. "Won't kill your vessel, especially not at this distance. But it might blast you right outta him."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Jake apologized, shaking his head.

"Drop the act." Sam shut doubt down before it could sneak in. "I know what you are."

"Well. Looks like that enormous head of yours is good for something after all." Jake smiled, then blinked. There was a flicking noise and his eyes filled with black. "Besides growing plenty of hair for demons to butcher. How did you figure it out?"

"It's a gravel drive." Sam smiled back, thinly. "If you'd actually walked up, I would've heard it."

"Clever," Jake allowed. He hadn't moved or lowered his hands, the gun apparently keeping him at bay. Sam considered shooting, or dropping it entirely and going for his knife, but maybe it'd be better to get some information before he tried for a kill.

"What're you even doing out here?" he asked, shaking his head. "This far west, in this town. Killing just...random people."

"First of all, I'm getting in some R and R," Jake replied easily. "This is like a vacation for me. And then I'm looking for a few important things, including our wayward Knight." He cocked his head to the side. "Speaking of which, where's your master?"

"Not really any of your business where my boyfriend is." Sam put a subtle emphasis on the word "boyfriend" and wondered how close Dean was to getting out of the trap.

Jake laughed. "Don't kid yourself. He's a demon; I felt it as soon as he walked into the barbershop. He's really no good at hiding himself. He's still so young. But you're a pet, meatbag. Either that or a fucktoy." He shrugged. "You don't look like you're worth betraying all of Hell for, but then again, I haven't screwed you. You must take it real nice. Or maybe he just likes how big you are." Jake frowned. "Heard you were crippled, though. Was that you, or did he swap the old one out?"

"Say whatever you want," Sam invited. "It won't work." He stared Jake down, refusing to take his eyes off of him. "Tell you what. Since you  _did_  fix my hair, I'll make you a deal. I've got a few questions for you, and Dean'll probably have plenty when he gets out, too. So if you answer all of them, we'll kill you as quick and painless as we can."

"'Dean'?" Jake repeated, hooding his eyes. "Oh, dear. I don't think he's supposed to call himself that."

Sam couldn't be entirely sure what happened next; it was just way too fast. But he thought he saw one of Jake's hands move, and the shotgun flew out of his grip before he could even think about pulling the trigger. Jake must have teleported towards him then, and Dean must've gotten free of the trap and also teleported, because Sam was just barely bending his knees to spring for the gun when Dean was suddenly right in front of him, front-kicking Jake down the driveway.

He flew quite a ways, sending up a spray of gravel when he landed on all fours, hands curled into claws. Dean took the opportunity to flash a quick smirk over his shoulder at Sam. His eyes were black.

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?" he asked. Sam was about to answer when Jake suddenly blinked out of sight, reappearing to bodyslam Dean. The momentum carried both of them behind the car.

Fingers beginning to stiffen with cold, Sam snatched the gun off the ground and followed them. They were wrestling ferociously on the ground, rapidly switching positions when one teleported and the other had to get a grip on him again. Neither one of them seemed to be trying to get away. Dean was grasping Jake firmly, fingers digging into him, and straining. When a look of confusion flickered across his face, Jake laughed.

"You can't tear me apart like you did those young bucks they sent after you in the mountains," he told Dean smugly. "I didn't get my horns yesterday. Don't even try."

"What the hell are you?" Dean growled.

"Oh, nothing special," Jake replied casually. "I'm just  _old_. Much older than you. I've learned ten times the tricks you have, and that's what's gonna let an ordinary demon like me bag a Knight like you."

Sam had the shotgun up but couldn't pull the trigger. If he shot now, the blast would catch Dean and Jake both. A Knight of Hell could take more salt than a normal demon, but he didn't want to risk weakening Dean at all right now. He couldn't do anything, and that was so frustrating it physically hurt. His hands trembled on the gun.

"Sam, make a cir - " Dean's order was abruptly cut off when Jake clapped a hand to his forehead and snarled a word in what Sam thought might be Catalan. The black drained out of Dean's eyes. He seemed stunned, body going lax. Jake easily threw him off, then got to his feet.

Sam wasted no time emptying the barrel at him. It didn't do anything. For a second, he thought he'd missed, but no. The side of the car was stippled with white salt, glittering in the dying light. Jake had just managed to teleport out of the way.

"Good try," he said condescendingly, beginning to walk towards Sam. Sam quickly backed up, breaking the shotgun open. He had to reload, but the ammo was on the ground behind him.

"What'd you do to him?" he demanded.

"It won't last long," Jake replied with a shrug. "Even if he doesn't know how to use it, he's still got a lot of raw power. But it should be more than enough time to take care of you. This whole thing will be so much easier once you're out of the picture."

Sam dropped the gun and pulled his knife out of his jacket instead. Jake's eyebrows drew together when he saw it, just a twitch, and Sam knew he recognized it for what it was.

"Come and get me, then," he told him, voice low.

Unfortunately, as Sam took another step back, his left boot came down on something round. It rolled out from underneath him, and his ass - along with most of his back - hit the cold gravel. It knocked the wind right out of him but, by some miracle, he kept his grip on the knife. He was lucky he didn't stab himself in the face.

Jake was on him immediately, knees on his chest, so he couldn't catch his breath, and hands on either side of his head. Sam gaped like a goldfish out of water, and Jake smiled benevolently down at him.

"Bye bye, pet," he said. "I had fun grooming you." Then he began to squeeze.

If he'd just crushed Sam's skull instantly, he probably could've pulled it off. He seemed to want to enjoy it, though, so he went slow. Sam cried out, hearing his bones creak inside his head and feeling his eyes start to bulge out of their sockets. His heart pounded in his ears and he struggled to bring his knife up, but a burst of telekinesis pinned his wrist against the gravel.

It was probably only a second or two of agony, and then Jake was ripped off of Sam. His fingernails tore stinging lines into the sides of Sam's head, and he felt blood run into his hair. Sam sat up, catching his breath and blinking rapidly as he got used to suddenly  _not_ being about to die. Dean was grappling with Jake again, growling and being careful to keep his head away from him this time.

Moving up into a crouch, Sam reached for the gun he'd dropped, looking for the box of ammo. Instead, though, he found the thing that'd tripped him: the spray paint. He hesitated for half a second, then grabbed the can and bolted. The gravel flying loose under his feet wouldn't work.

"Look at him go." Jake laughed, talking to Dean. "I guess he saw a chance and took it...don't worry. Maybe Alastair will get him back for you." Sam winced when he heard Dean snarl in pain, but he couldn't afford to look back. "Just as soon as he's done taking these past few months out of your ass."

The snow crunched beneath Sam's boots when he reached it. He began to kick it out of the way to expose the yellow grass beneath, frantically shaking the can. As soon as he'd cleared a big enough piece of solid ground, he tore the cap off and pressed down on the nozzle.

Sam was still shaky with adrenaline and his hands were cold, so it wasn't the best devil's trap. The circle was lopsided and some of the symbols were bigger than others. They were all there, though, and all the points of the pentagram were inside his crappy circle, and he was pretty sure that was all that mattered.

"Dean!" he yelled as soon as he was finished, stepping back.

Glancing in Sam's direction, Dean seemed to instantly understand. He wrapped both arms around Jake, teleported directly into the devil's trap with him, and then just stepped back out of it.

Jake looked confused for a second. Then he started to laugh, standing on the painted grass. He smiled at Sam and Dean.

"Well, that was smarter than I would've expected from the two of you," he admitted. "I hope you realize you're just delaying the inevitable. You..." He looked at Sam. "You're with a Knight of Hell. That isn't going to end well for you. And you..." He looked at Dean. "Your Lords and Prince are coming for you, Dantalion. They won't be stopped. And when they find you, you're going to wish you'd never been born."

"I think I've heard just about enough outta you." Dean pulled the knife that Sam was still holding out of his hand, handling it carefully, then made to step back into the devil's trap. Sam threw an arm across his chest, though.

"Wait," he told him, then looked at Jake. "Where's Frank?"

The demon cocked his head to the side again, eyes black. He smiled very slowly. "Ah, right. The man of the house behind you. You're hoping he's still alive, aren't you? So you can save him?" He chuckled. "Never mind that his family's dead and his reputation's ruined. You're a hunter. Just so long as he's breathing, that's a win."

Sam didn't say anything. Standing beside him, knife at the ready, neither did Dean.

"I chose Jake here at random," the demon continued, "but once I was inside him, I had access to all sorts of fascinating memories. For example, Frank's wife? Jake'd had an eye on her since middle school. Never said a word until she and Frank were married. And her children? Both Jake's. I'd say Frank was probably sterile." He smiled again. "I came here and told him the truth, and he shot me in the chest. Understandably. He actually killed Jake, although of course he didn't know that." He lifted his shirt to expose a neat bullet wound on the left side of his furry chest. "So I pinned him against the wall and made him watch what I did."

"Who the hell cares?" Dean demanded, and Jake smirked.

"Don't act like you don't wish it wasn't you who'd had all that fun."

"Is Frank alive or not?" Sam asked flatly.

"Oh, he's quite dead," Jake replied easily. "Recently dead, though. I kept him for a long time. So it's a real shame...if only you'd gotten here sooner. You might've been able to save him after all."

"Guess we're done here, then." Dean tossed Sam's knife into the air, caught it, then lunged forward and slammed it into the hollow of Jake's throat, burying it all the way up to the hilt. Jake's mouth fell open. A little bit of dark blood dripped off his lower lip as light the color of fresh meat blazed through his body, outlining his skeleton. Then it flickered out, and the body slumped forward in the devil's trap after Dean pulled the knife out with a wet ripping sound.

"Jesus." Sam dragged a hand backwards through his hair. The length was a shock all over again. "So...I guess we're burning him?"

"Not like we've got much choice." Dean shrugged as he crouched to clean the knife off in the snow. "Ground's too hard to bury him, and something else could come along and use his body if we did that."

He handed the knife back to Sam, then led the way towards the car. Sam kept glancing back over his shoulder at the crumpled corpse behind them, eyes no longer black, blood oozing out of its open mouth and throat. It was like a compulsion. He jumped a little when Dean clapped a hand onto his back.

"Hey," he said seriously. "Look at me." Sam did. "This was a win, okay?"

"Was it, though?" Sam asked, frowning. "Five people are dead, and god only knows how many cows, and the whole town's reeling."

"It was a hunt." Dean put his whole arm around Sam when they reached the open trunk. "Our job's to kill the monster, not fix the mess it made. And we did that. Neither of us got majorly hurt, either, so that's a hell of a lot better than our last hunt." Sam leaned heavily into his touch. His eyes had gone back to normal without him noticing. "I don't know about you, but I feel totally comfortable moving onto the Trials after we do another hunt."

Sam looked at him sharply. "You said - " Dean laughed, cutting him off.

"I know, I know," he assured. "We're gonna do the First Trial. Just gotta find a hellhound case first." He pulled a bottle of lighter fluid and a canister of rock salt out of the arsenal. "Which might be easier said than done."

"Are you okay?" Sam traded with Dean, and Dean put the paint back in the trunk. Sam kept the knife. Just in case.

"Course. Why wouldn't I be?" He also sent the box of ammunition and shotgun that Sam'd dropped back where they'd come from with a flick of his wrist.

"Well, he made it sound like he was pretty garden-variety, but...he also kinda threw you around like a ragdoll." They made the short walk back to Jake's body. "So I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thanks for reminding me, Sam. But I'm just fine," Dean said. His tone was light and easy, and maybe a little exasperated. "I know I got a lot to learn about being a Knight, and a demon. Still got a shitload more mojo than most, though, and plus: we beat him." Dean gave Sam a smile. "It'd sure be nice to know more fancy tricks than I do already, but if it comes down to it, I think I'd rather just have you backing me up."

Sam smiled back at him, a warm feeling spreading slowly through his chest like honey in his veins. He felt so different after this hunt than he had the last one that it was incredible. He almost didn't notice when Dean looked down at his legs.

"What?" he asked. "Am I limping?"

"Well, you were, but...you just stopped." Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it. We gotta clean up our mess."

They scrubbed the still-wet spray paint out of the grass with their boots, then took Jake's body to the scrubby woods surrounding the property, where his remains would be less likely to be found. The sky was a dark purple as the fire burned, and Sam would've had a hard time seeing Dean if it hadn't been for the flames. After a while, Dean turned to him.

"How 'bout you?" he asked, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. "Are  _you_  okay?"

"Yeah," Sam realized. "I really am." He offered Dean a tentative grin. "I'm excited."

"It's gonna be rough," Dean warned. "Saving the world's not all fun and games."

"Yeah, I'd figured," Sam replied dryly. Looking down at the pyre, he sighed. "Think I'd forgotten about this part of hunting. Not being able to save people. I hate it." He coughed. "I also really hate how burning bodies smell."

"I used to," Dean agreed, "but I hardly notice it anymore." He patted Sam on the shoulder, which quickly turned into ruffling his hair. "We're almost done, though. Then we can go."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to my editors!

_I don't like dogs._

_Seems like people always flip out whenever I say that. They just can't believe it. What? Everybody likes dogs! How can you not like dogs? Really freaking easy is how._

_Dad likes dogs, even. He's got one right now. Some kind of Rottweiler? I don't know. I've only ever seen it from a distance. Don't know the name, either. I don't care. It's chained up out in the scrapyard and not like I'm home all that much._

_Kevin says only psychos hate dogs, cause they can tell there's something wrong with them, but I've got another reason. There are a ton of monster dogs out there, and I've run into a lot of them. Black shucks, grims. Axehandle hounds. Now those are weird. Hellhounds. I really hate those. Fucking Xolotl._

_Jesus, don't even get me started on Xolotl. What a dick. Guess I can only hope I never run into him again, but seriously, why me? Most hunters hardly ever even come across a demon and I've got a god crawling up my ass every few years. Can't be a coincidence._

_Anyway, I just don't like dogs. And nothing's gonna change my mind._

_\- Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1986_

* * *

"One I did was real easy to find," Dean told Sam. "I got lucky. One of those things where one person summons a crossroads demon and it uses that as an in to make a whole bunch of deals in the same area. They all started coming due while I was looking for my First Trial."

"Yeah, a bunch of people losing their marbles and being mauled to death by dogs'd kinda be a dead giveaway," Sam agreed. Eyeing the screen of his laptop, where he had about twenty tabs open, he sighed. "Wish one would just fall in my lap like that."

"Hey, we're looking," Dean encouraged. He was sitting on the floor, every cheap newsrag he'd been able to pick up along I84 spread out around him. The colors had already bled off onto his hands. And his face, his jeans, and Sam, where he'd touched all of them. "Deals go down all the time. We'll find one."

"I'm afraid it's not gonna be 'til after the hellhounds have come and gone, though," Sam replied. "And they're kinda central to this whole thing." He paused, tapping his pencil against the notebook that he was jotting down potential leads in. "Can you walk me through exactly what I'm gonna do, again? One more time?"

"Well." Dean straightened up, hands on the knees of his folded legs, and looked at Sam. "It's pretty simple. On paper, at least. There aren't that many steps. It's just that the first one's a doozy." He started ticking them off on his thick fingers. "Kill a hellhound. I used an angel blade, but that super special knife of yours oughta do the trick just fine. 'Bathe' in its blood. I caught it in a bowl, some of it, at least, and dumped it over my head, and apparently that was enough. Recite a spell, then you, uh, glow, and boom. You're doing the Trials."

Sam felt a frown flicker across his face. "I sure hope you remember that spell."

"Have a little faith. Course I do." Dean turned his attention back to the tabloids. "One of the many, many things that little memory spell of yours dredged up, and no wonder, considering how many times I had to practice it." He flipped a few pages telekinetically. "And good thing. 'Cause I got no idea where the demon Tablet wound up. Pretty sure Kevin still had it when I bit it."

"Right," Sam said. "I better start practicing sooner rather than later, so if you could recite that for me sometime, that'd be great." He felt invisible fingers in his hair and sighed. "Is it sticking up again?" He'd spent the entire ride from that tiny town in Idaho to this even tinier one in Oregon messing with it, but he still couldn't get it to look quite like it had the first time Jake had done it.

"Yup." Dean grinned, and even as Sam returned an unimpressed look, he wondered if it'd be weird to lean into a psychic touch. "Should've kept Jake alive for a while, so he could've given you some tips...I'm kidding. I think it's cute." He smoothed Sam's hair down. "In an Alfalfa kinda way."

Sam scoffed, raising both eyebrows. "Careful, Dandelion. I might say something about your freckles."

"What about my freckles?" Dean asked defensively. Sam just shook his head and looked at his computer again.

"Might be easier to put a want ad out there," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Craigslist or something. 'Did a red-eyed stranger approach you offering the impossible roughly a decade ago, then actually deliver? Call our toll-free - '"

"Seriously," Dean interrupted, and Sam glanced at him. "What's wrong with my freckles?" He had his hands on his face like he was trying to feel them. But he wasn't doing anything but smearing more newsprint onto himself.

"Nothing," Sam stated. "I like them. Let it go, dude. We've got work to do."

"Shouldn't've brought it up in the first place, then," Dean muttered under his breath, picking up a copy of  _Weekly World News._ Sam made a mental note to give his freckles the attention they deserved later. Maybe he'd kiss every single one, or at least every single part of Dean that had them on it. For now, he changed the subject.

"It's gonna be tough to kill a dog," Sam commented. "Hellhound or not. I had a problem with it when they brought me one at the cabin, and that one'd killed three people."

"Yeah." Dean grimaced. "I hate dogs."

Sam gave him his full attention, incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"What?" Dean shrugged, defensive again. "I hate dogs."

"Yeah, but - " Sam took a second to rein himself in. "Nobody hates dogs. Who hates dogs?"

"Uh, me," Dean said dryly. He wasn't looking at Sam, gray-smudged nose pretty much buried in the magazine.

"I don't think I've...ever met somebody who hated dogs," Sam said honestly. "Not even cat people. I mean - " He put both hands on his chest. "I  _love_ dogs. Growing up, pretty much all I wanted was a dog. That, and to stay at one school for a whole year. But my dad always shut me down on both counts." He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Didn't 'fit with the life.'"

"Okay, your obvious daddy issues aside," Dean began, clearing his throat and lowering  _WWN_. Sam scowled. "If you like dogs so freakin' much, how come you didn't have one at your cabin?"

"I..." Sam hesitated. He walked slowly across the room, not going anywhere, just moving. "I thought about it. At first. I almost asked Bobby about it, which ought to tell you how early on it was, but I decided against it." He shrugged at Dean, standing at the edge of his circle of cheap paper and cheaper ink. "I wasn't sure I could take care of it. Y'know, physically. And it wouldn't've been a good place for a dog; dogs don't like monsters. And a lot of monsters don't like dogs. I was trying to accommodate them." He folded his arms across his chest, feeling the tip of his tongue sneak out of his mouth as he looked down at Dean. "Never heard anything specific about demons and dogs, though."

"I hated dogs before I died," Dean replied. "Becoming a demon had nothing to do with it."

"Why d'you hate dogs, then?" Sam asked, spreading his hands and shaking his head. Dean might've put  _WWN_  down, but he was still looking at it rather than Sam. "Did something happen to you? Did you have a bad - "

He stopped abruptly, eyes falling closed and hands dropping to his sides as a realization hit him like a bullet between the eyes. It was funny, how Dean relied on him to be the more emotional and human of them, and the one who was more into research, and he hadn't even been able to put an obvious two and two together. Dean being a demon. Dean hating dogs. Hellhounds.

 _God, I am such a fucking_ idiot.

Sam stepped over the line of shock tabloids and sank down on the floor next to Dean, ignoring the way the muscles of his left calf fluttered. He leaned against him, putting an arm around his waist and feeling his warmth. Alive, there, just not quite human. After a second of Dean not moving, Sam turned his head so he could rest his chin on his shoulder, and murmured, "I'm sorry."

To his surprise, Dean responded by chuckling, low and deep in his chest. Sam pulled back slightly, and Dean turned to him with a grin. Those stupid freckles were on full display, sprayed across his nose and cheeks, picked out by the light coming through the dingy curtains and only partially obscured by newsprint. Sam wondered if he'd been this pretty before or if he'd tweaked his vessel some while he was healing it.

"Jesus," he said. "You are  _so_ easy to guilt. How the hell'd you even survive? My money would've been on you letting a vampire out of its cage after a sob story in the first week."

"You would've lost that bet," Sam pointed out. "I let a monster out of its cage 'cause it told me it loved me,  _not_ because of a sob story, and it happened a few hundred weeks in, not the first one." He tossed a hand up. "And it hasn't even killed me. Yet."

"Smartass," Dean accused. "And yeah, you better keep that 'yet' in mind." He lifted a hand and cupped the back of Sam's head, playing with his short hair. "I accept your apology. I hated dogs before I died, actually, but the whole hellhound thing definitely didn't help."

"So...you gonna be okay?" Sam asked quietly. "I know we still have to find a case, but once we do, we're gonna have to get pretty up close and personal with some hellhounds."

"Yeah." Dean's nose bumped Sam's. "I'll be fine. Stuff like that doesn't even bother me anymore." His tone was breezy, impossible to hear a lie in, but Sam was skeptical anyway. Dean must've felt that, because he went for his usual method of distraction: he kissed Sam.

It started out sweet, Dean taking upper lip and keeping his mouth closed. Sam angled his head a little so that they meshed together better, supposing he could stand to be distracted some for now. Dean's mouth was always so soft. And Sam could swear he felt all the power behind it, all the physical and psychic strength that Dean held back, so he wouldn't accidentally break his jaw or make his head explode. He could especially feel it wen Dean guided his mouth open with his own and lapped at the edges. Wet heat dripped onto Sam's tongue, tasting like honey. And sulfur, as always. A shiver wound its way up through Sam's stomach, and his thighs jerked apart by about an inch without him thinking about it. Blood was just starting to pound southward when Dean pulled back.

"Your lips feel kinda chapped," Dean rasped. Sam's barely-there arousal suddenly seemed to be threatened.

"I'm - "

"You're dehydrated, is what you are," Dean interrupted, pulling back further. He pointed at the bathroom. "Go drink a glass of water."

Sam just stared at him for a second, then demanded, "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Nope. Water." Dean snapped his fingers in the direction of the bathroom. "C'mon. Makes up ninety percent of your body, top it off."

"Seventy-five." Swearing under his breath, Sam got to his feet. "This is how you're gonna kill me, isn't it?" He shot Dean a dirty look over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom. "This better not be 'cause of all those times I wasn't in the mood."

"Course not," Dean replied easily, shaking out  _WWN_  and lifting it back to eye level. It's my job to take care of you. And I take my job  _very_ seriously."

* * *

They did wind up having sex, once Sam had drunk enough water to satisfy Dean's mother-hen instincts. Dean rode him, saying he wanted a prostate orgasm ("I need one I can feel in my damn  _teeth_ right now. Not fair you get to have all the fun all the time."), and they fell back into bed as the sunlight sharpened into its noon form. Sam was torn, still horny from that filthy kiss but also painfully aware of the ticking clock. Hell was moving fast and not even Dean knew what they were doing. Hellhound cases were hit-or-miss. They needed to get this show on the road.

Dean made him forget all that, though, with slow, deep rolls of his hips, and open-mouthed kisses while he twitched his ass up to Sam's head, and callused finger pads on Sam's sensitive nipples. When his orgasm hit, he could tell it was going to be one that'd practically shake the bed apart.

At least until he made a reflexive and misguided attempt to wrap his legs around Dean, and something in his calf twinged. Then he was back in his cabin, breaking Gordon's neck with his feet, feeling the jolt of shattered bones ripping through a spinal cord, watching the split-second switch from life to death on his face. Never mind that he hadn't actually seen that when he'd done it. Guilt and horror still stopped his climax dead in its tracks, like a cork rammed back into the neck of a champagne bottle with demonic speed.

It hurt, to the point where it made Sam nauseous. It felt like he'd been kicked in the balls. Tears welled under his closed lids, and his voice came out far higher than he would've liked when he yelled "Fuck!" and pounded a fist into the mattress.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he could open his eyes, but Dean was still sitting on top of him. He was flaccid, and there was come puddled on Sam's chest and stomach; he hadn't even noticed Dean finish. They stared at each other for a minute, then Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and climbed off Sam. He'd already slipped out of him, along with a pitiful amount of jizz so thin, when Sam sat up to look at it on the bedspread, that it was practically precome.

"Well, that's never happened before," Dean announced, settling down beside Sam.

"It wasn't you," Sam said miserably.

"Yeah, I figured. I felt that, uh, pity party bomb that went off in your head right as you were getting close." Dean waited a beat. Tentatively, he began, "D'you wanna - ?"

"No." Sam dragged a hand through his sweaty hair. His fingers coming out of it much sooner than he'd expected made him grit his teeth.

"Okay. Fine." Dean's head bobbed. There was a smeared thumbprint of ink on the side of his nose. "Great - I respect that." He shifted closer to Sam, their shoulders brushing, and reached into his lap. "At least lemme give you a real finish."

"No," Sam repeated, cocking his pelvis away from Dean's hand as he made contact with his dick. Frustration nearly choked him: he hadn't even come and he was still dealing with a refractory period.

"Sorry." Dean took his hand back. Sam laid down on his side, back to Dean, curled up around his aching stomach. He could feel Dean moving on the mattress, like he wanted to touch him but didn't know how. Something close to a minute passed before he said, again, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Dean." Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing hard into his stinging eyes. "It's just - I'm fucked up. I'm just fucked up. That's all."

"Guess we match, then." Dean laid a hand on him, comfortingly rubbing his side from his armpit to his hip. Sam didn't want to admit it, but it felt good. Even when Dean's calluses caught on his moles and scars. He missed the contact when Dean climbed off the bed, but he was back before long, with a threadbare washcloth. After Sam wiped himself off and handed it back, Dean pulled a blanket over him. It was scratchy and smelled vaguely sour. But at least it was warm.

"Thanks," Sam muttered, more habit than real gratitude.

"Yeah, whatever." He heard Dean grab his jeans. "I'm gonna get back to work. You recharge your batteries." He dropped down on the foot of the bed, making Sam bounce and dragging a groan that he definitely didn't exaggerate out of him. "And if you feel like slinging around any of those sticky human emotions, you know where to find me."

"No," Sam grunted.

"That makes my life easier," Dean replied easily. "You know I suck at all that touchy-feely stuff." He patted Sam's foot under the blanket and stood up.

Sam didn't want to stew, to fixate on what'd happened or what he'd remembered. His brain didn't seem to care what he wanted, though. Business as usual for stuff like this. He spent about ten minutes laying on the bed, breathing deeply as the physical discomfort slowly faded, before he realized that he wasn't going to be able to sleep. He threw off the blanket and crawled to the edge of the bed to grab his backpack.

"I'm going for a run," he announced. That'd probably help more than a nap.

Dean, on his stomach in the middle of his trashy circle, looked up. "I mean, it's, like, twenty degrees out, but okay," he said. He watched Sam put on all of his gear, some of it newly bought as the weather turned, and let him get all the way to the muffler before he said, "Before you go, wanna look at what I found?"

Sam threw his arms wide, exasperated, and Dean answered with a shit-eating grin and raised eyebrows. And maybe it was stupid. Probably, it was. But Sam felt just the tiniest bit better.

"Fine," he said through the fleecy fabric of his muffler, clumping over in his running shoes and thick woolen socks. Dean displayed his find for Sam like a kid with a coloring book. It was in a Christian magazine, a shittily-Photoshopped, televangelist-type thing, just a blurb near the back.

 _I SOLD MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL!_ dramatic text proclaimed, imposed over flames and Galle's Lucifer. Interesting choice.  _And now he's coming back!_  it continued below, in smaller letters.  _Former sinner appeals to Father Eddie Norton, True Voice of God, and his many pious followers for help. Father Norton to hold prayer revival in Ballinger, Texas this coming Saturday. Come save this man's soul!_

"All right," Sam agreed once he was finished, scanning it. "Sounds like that's worth checking out. Interviewing the, uh, 'former sinner,' at least." He made a face. "Texas, though. Jeez. And we gotta get there before Saturday...that's gonna be a long drive."

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed happily, then looked up at Sam. "You clearly don't appreciate your dad's baby, so I'm just gonna have to appreciate her enough for both of us."

 _Her?_  "Okay, well, I'm going for a run before we leave." Sam raised both index fingers, the movement made stiff and awkward by his thick gloves. "Nonnegotiable."

"I wasn't even gonna try to negotiate," Dean assured him. "I'll pack us up. You work on keeping that girlish figure of yours." He patted Sam's ankle, and Sam kicked his hand away. Gently.

"Wash your face while you're at it," Sam suggested, and Dean touched it as he headed out the door, smudging pink onto the hollow of his temple.

"Love you too, honey."

Sam went for a run. A quick one, because the schedule was even tighter now. It was freezing out, just like Dean had said, and felt even colder than it actually was because of the humidity. Sweat froze in Sam's eyelashes, seed pearls glittering in the light streaming through the gappy cloud cover like something off an inspirational postcard. He liked the way the air burned in his lungs, though, and how it made it harder than usual to get his legs moving. It distracted him from how good he'd been doing all the way up until today. If he was thinking about how bad his chest hurt, he wasn't thinking about how nothing at all had triggered the flashback. He wasn't stressing over how bad it'd be if that happened while he was trying to do the First Trial.

When Sam looped around back to the motel, it wasn't like everything was magically better. He wasn't sure he could handle a run long enough to do that, even if he had all the time in the world. But at least he'd managed to pack it all away for now where it wouldn't bother him so much anymore.

Which always worked out  _so well_ for him in the long run. Hopefully, though, the long run wouldn't catch up to him until after the First Trial was over with. Or even until the Gates of Hell were actually closed.

It'd started to snow, lightly, as Sam approached the car. Dean was sitting on the hood, legs out in front of him, back against the windshield. His arms were folded behind his head and Sam's headphones were over his ears, plugged into the tape player he'd picked up over the summer. He cracked an eye open, then slipped one of the cups off. "You ready to bounce?"

"Yeah, I can change when we hit a rest stop." Sam eyed what Dean was wearing. T-shirt, flannel with the sleeves rolled up. He'd gotten the ink off his face. "You could've at least put on a coat. People're gonna get suspicious."

"I'll just tell 'em I'm on Texas weather already." Dean slid off the hood and dropped into the driver's seat, transferring the tape from the player to the car and popping the keys in the ignition. Sam swung himself in on the passenger side, landing heavily on the leather. "How's your leg?"

"Uh." Sam pulled his gloves off, scrubbed at his numb nose with one hand. "Fine?" Dean hadn't asked him that since the first couple times he'd gone running.

"Great." Dean backed out. "Got some stuff for you in the back. Grab a drink."

They decided Dean would drive straight through down to Ballinger, Sam sleeping in the back at night, only stopping when the Impala needed gas. Dean pulled into a filling station a few hours down the road to top up the tank and let Sam take care of any human needs he might have. They weren't out of Oregon yet, so the attendant jumped to his feet when Dean parked next to the pump.

"I hate this goddamn state," Dean muttered.

"You'll survive," Sam assured. "Just keep reminding yourself it's his job to touch her and try not to beat him up."

He made to climb out of the car, but Dean grabbed his elbow before he could, pulling him back for a quick kiss. Sam closed his eyes, caught halfway between irritation and something much warmer and gooier.

"You're okay." Dean's voice was serious when they broke. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, figuring he could use the confirmation.

He grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom, where he put on fresh deodorant and swapped his running clothes out for normal ones. He was probably gonna be pretty ripe by the time they got to Texas, but that was life on the road, and it wasn't like Dean minded. Sam pulled off the beanie he'd been wearing, winced at his hair, and put it back on. They probably wouldn't be stopping again for a while, so he took care of a few other things. Stepping out into the cold air, he was about to go back to the car when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out, checked the number. He didn't recognize it, but he hadn't recognized Charlie's, either. Maybe she'd gotten another new phone. Maybe Garth had. Sam flipped it open and answered.

"Hello?"

"This Sam Winchester?"

The voice was gruff, older, had a bit of a twang to it. Not Garth or Ash. A bad feeling had Sam swallowing hard as his stomach dropped some, and he wanted to hang up. Something, though, made him quietly say, "Yeah."

"Well," the guy on the other end said loudly. "Hey, there, you murderin', cock-suckin' son of a bitch. You enjoying your alone time with your demon fuckbuddy?"

Sam cleared his throat painfully. "How'd you get this number?"

"Well, you'd better be." The guy ignored him. "'Cause it ain't gonna last. We're comin' for you. Gonna kill that black-eyed bastard what's fucking you. Or exorcise him, maybe that'd be better. And you? We're gonna  _skin you alive_ , gimp. You're gonna pay for what you did."

"And what - what d'you think I did, exactly?" Sam rested his free hand on the building, tapping his fingers against the greasy bricks as anger started to simmer between his chest and stomach. He knew it was dangerous. But he didn't shut it down.

"Flipped." The other hunter was growling now, furious. "Sold us all out to Hell when the demons've been kicking our asses all around the East Coast for months now. Killed Gordon, another human being, in cold blood. You even a person anymore? You gonna bleed red when we catch up and start cutting? Or did one of your monsters get to you a while back?" A snort. "Wouldn't be surprised, you treatin' 'em like puppies and kitties. Rumor going around you let 'em all jump your bones and that Knight we practically killed ourselves to get is just the latest in a long line. That true?"

"Is this Kubrik?" The voice was starting to sound familiar to Sam, like it might belong to one of the hunters who'd delivered Dean to his cabin in the first place.

"Bet you diddled the wraith kid."

"When I killed Gordon," Sam began in a carefully-controlled voice, "I was tied to a chair. He'd knocked me out, tied me up in my own home, and tortured me while I was out."

"'Cause he knew what you were up to," maybe-Kubrik returned.

"And what was I up to?" Sam demanded. "You knew Gordon. He hated me, he hated how I did what I did 'cause it was so different from his methods. A lot of you did. He was just looking for an excuse, and he found it when he jumped to conclusions and assumed the worst. He never asked me what I was doing, and when I told him, he didn't believe me."

"And what were you doing, then?" Kubrik wanted to know. "Besides fagging around with something you should've been figuring out how to kill."

Sam's stomach was starting to hurt like it had earlier, and the anger ballooning like an aggressive tumor inside him was only part of it. "It doesn't matter. You're not gonna believe me no matter what I say. You're exactly like Gordon: you want my head on a stick because of what you  _think_  you know and you're not gonna let anything change your mind." He clenched his hand into a fist on the wall, so fast he scraped his knuckles. His cold joints ached and stung. "The  _Knight_  knows how to close the Gates of Hell. How to get rid of all the demons, forever. Deals, daevas, everything.  _Everything_. And considering I've got my ass on the line trying to save the world, including all of you, I don't really think that anything else I do with him is any of your business."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a solid few seconds. Sam didn't know what to make of it, not sure if Kubrik was actually mulling over what he'd said or if he'd hung up. But then a sound came rumbling through the phone, mocking and so deep that Sam had trouble identifying it as a laugh at first.

Sam just stood there, jaw and hand clenched, and wondered why in the hell he was waiting this asshole out. His thumb twitched towards the button that would've ended the call, but he didn't press it.

"Son," Kubrik began, when he was finished, "I'm honestly not sure if you're a liar or just an idiot. Neither one's an excuse, though."

Sam swallowed again, and felt his jaw lock forward to form what Dean called his "stubborn bitchface."

"Fine," he said, very quietly.  _Not like I need support from any of you to do this._

"Bet you think you can't be caught, huh?" Kubrik taunted. "You're too fast. You're too smart. It'd take us too long to track you down. Well, maybe you're right. But there are still plenty of people out there singing your praises, somehow. The Harvelles, y'know? That weirdo Garth kid. The rug muncher - Charlie. And we all know exactly where they are."

The anger that'd slowly been rising in Sam, twisting and heating his guts, boiled over at that. Or maybe a better analogy would've been somebody dropping a lit match in a gas can.

"Listen," Sam snapped. "You douchebags wanna come after me and...cut my legs off, or whatever, I don't care. Go right ahead. But don't you  _dare_ go after my family. They're not part of this. One of you already burned down the Roadhouse, didn't you? Try anything like that again, I can promise you'll regret it."

"Yeah?" Kubrik didn't sound impressed. "And what're you gonna do?"

"I've got seven years' worth of interrogation experience and a Knight of Hell," Sam spit into the phone. "Figure it out."

Then he hung up. Finally.

The fire in him went out after that. He wasn't mad anymore, just tired and troubled and guilty. He told himself he shouldn't be feeling that last one, but didn't really believe it.

Something was really bothering him, besides the obvious. It was like a splinter in Sam's brain: just how in the hell had Kubrik gotten his number? Only a handful of people had it, and thinking any of them might've given him up made Sam feel like he was going to puke, just thin, burning acid.

Thinking about that made him realize that, if Kubrik had his number, he (or somebody else) might be able to track him. Or call him again. Right now, Sam honestly didn't know which was worse.

He whipped his phone at the ground, using his whole arm like his dad had told him to when he was teaching him to throw knives. That cracked the casing and the screen. But it totally destroyed the phone when he stomped on it, grinding it into about twenty different pieces underneath the heel of his boot.

Sam was just standing there, staring down at the wreckage, when Dean came around the side of the building.

"Well, there you are. Figured you'd fallen in." He paused, either seeing the remains of Sam's phone or feeling the wall of emotion coming off him. "What happened?"

"I, uh." Sam pointed at the ground. "I dropped it."

"I guess you did," Dean agreed. "And that really upset you, huh?"

Sam stared at him, and there was a long moment where he almost didn't tell him. He didn't want to talk about how close the people who hated them might be, or how somebody he'd trusted had sold them out. He didn't want them to have to worry about it together.

But what Dean had said about acting like part of a couple rather than a solo hunter had burned deep into him, sinking in like a bullet that couldn't ever be dug out. And it wouldn't let him keep his mouth shut about something this big.

"I," he began. "Got a call. From...another hunter. Not just another hunter, one of the guys who used to run with Gordon. He didn't say anything I didn't expect, but - fuck. Hearing it from somebody?  _Knowing_ that he. That he  _found_ me, or at least my number?" He swallowed. It hurt, his mouth tasting sour like blood or vomit. "Or that somebody...somebody gave it to him? I couldn't..." He trailed off. Dean was watching him patiently, doing that not-blinking thing that always squicked Sam out, and he brought both hands up to his head. Almost ran his fingers through his hair, remembered he couldn't just in time. "And  _of course_ it'd happen now, right fucking now, when I'm already wound up about...you know. About all of this. Starting the Trials, killing a hellhound. The last one I took out, it was in my demon cell, and it was  _leashed_. On an iron chain." Once he'd started telling the truth, the rest of it poured out of him. It must be vomit his mouth tasted like, because it felt like throwing up. "And...when we were having sex earlier, if that happens while we're hunting - "

"Okay. Slow down." Dean stepped forward, shaking his head, and put both hands on Sam. One on his shoulder, the other cupping his jaw. "First of all: that asshole's miles away from you, and even if he ain't, you think I'm gonna let him, or any of 'em, get anywhere near the two of us? It was just a phone call. One you made sure isn't gonna happen again." He stared, hard, into Sam's eyes. "And second of all: you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine. What happened earlier didn't happen with the ghoul hunt, it didn't happen yesterday, and you were totally freaking  _awesome_ yesterday. You're good at this, Sam. You practically lost a leg and you didn't even let that take you outta the game the whole way." He ducked in, kissed Sam loud and wet on the lips, and just that had him smiling involuntarily. "You've got some jitters right now, and that's totally normal, but you chose to do this. You even roped me into it. And you're gonna see it through to the very end."

Sam closed his eyes and stepped in, wrapping his arms around him.

"We're gonna take it one step at a time," Dean said quietly. "And our first step's to get to Texas." He paused. "Or to get you a new phone. 'Cause,  _jeez_ , man, are you ever rough on 'em."


	11. Chapter 11

_We know a lot about demons' true faces, thanks to interviews with those who have made crossroads deals. The general consensus is that they're ugly, horrifying. Of course they are. Nobody is going to look good if they're tortured every single day for centuries, their wounds exposed to Hell's harsh conditions, the combined hate and rage and pain of the damned part of the human race, gathered over millennia, poured into their souls. The eyes are black, of course. Some interesting things happen with the smoke, too, or so I've heard._

_You're not going to be able to see one, though: I've tried, there's no way. The only people who get to see demons' true faces are those slated to die, ones whose deals are so close to coming due that they're seeing human faces twist and hearing hellhounds howl. I've heard ghosts can see them, and people with death curses the clock is running down on, and certain creatures and animals. Angels, reapers, dogs._

_Personally, I'm not jealous of any of those just because they can see what demons really look like._

_-_ Demons and Other Biblical Monsters,  _Sam Winchester_

* * *

"No teleporting," Sam had started. "No telekinesis."

"Fine, whatever."

"No black eyes, no starting fires...'cause you can do that, right? No touching any Bibles or holy water or crosses, because they'll burn you, and people'll see."

"Why the hell would I touch any of those on purpose?"

"No talking about Hell," Sam told Dean. "No quoting  _The Exorcist._ "

"Well, fine." Dean rolled his eyes. "If you're really that determined I have no fun at all here."

"No demon shit." Sam hoped that would cover anything he'd forgotten.

_"Fine."_ Dean's eyes came off the road, and he winked at Sam. "Wanna kiss? Seal the deal?"

"Depends." Sam raised his eyebrows. "You aren't a crossroads demon. Would it still lock you into a contract?"

"Nope."

They kissed anyway, but decided Sam should probably go to the revival alone.

They made it to Ballinger Saturday morning. The revival didn't start until one, and Sam was achy, tired, and felt disgusting. Showering and shaving was practically a religious experience, and so was eating a meal that didn't come out of a plastic bag. Getting to take a nap without having to fold up his six-foot-four frame in the back seat of the car nearly made him cry.

He put his appearance together carefully once he felt human again. It was as much of a costume as the FBI suit. Neatly-combed hair, clean-shaven face, short-sleeved white button down, black tie and slacks and shoes.

"You look like a missionary," Dean declared. He'd showered and changed, too, though he'd kept the jeans-boots-and-flannel theme.

"Yep," Sam agreed, leaning in close to the water-spotted mirror in the bathroom to make sure all of his many, many bald spots were covered up. "That's the point."

The revival was easy to find. There were signs all over town, first of all, and the huge white tent at the fairgrounds was hard to miss. Sam left Dean in the gravel parking lot with his tape player and a stack of reading material, the Impala not standing out all that much among the wide variety of other cars, and headed across the dirt field to the entrance.

There was a folding table there, a couple of middle-aged women with feathered hair and press-on nails handing out pamphlets. Once Sam got closer, he saw that some were programs and others had to do with Father Eddie Norton's own particular brand of faith.

"Hey there, sugar." One of the women greeted Sam with a pink-lipsticked smile and an unmistakable Georgia drawl. "Here to pray with us?"

"Sure am," Sam said politely. "Saw the announcement in the  _Guiding Light,_ got down here quick as I could."

The woman beamed at him, handing over a stack of pamphlets. "Bless you."

"You, too," Sam replied, hoping that'd been the right thing to say as he headed inside.

The tent was hot and bright, smelling like dry earth, sun-heated fabric, and sweat. It was the middle of the day in Texas, and even though it was November, it had to be at least eighty degrees. Sam was glad he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt even as sweat began to pool in the small of his back, where a gun and his knife were stashed, and the palms of his hands. The shiny paper of the pamphlets he was holding began to pucker and wrinkle.

There were a lot of people in here, which Sam had been able to tell from the parking lot. Most of them were milling around, greeting each other like old friends. He saw a lot of Bibles. And guns. He probably could've worn his own on his hip, if he'd owned a holster. The chatter of the crowd pressed on his eardrums like a physical force.

When was the last time he'd been somewhere with so many people? Maybe orientation his senior year, when he'd started at a place with a couple thousand upperclassmen alone. The air felt thick and dead in Sam's mouth, hard to breathe, and he told himself it was just the heat.

There was a stage up at the front, a microphone, speakers, and a slew of religious paraphernalia resting on it, and a sea of plastic folding chairs arranged neatly in rows facing it. About half were still empty. Sam chose one in the middle, next to a woman holding a toddler on her lap. She had a paper fan and the toddler had a soda.

The toddler stared and her mother smiled. Sam barely managed one in return, then faced forward.

He should've expected this. He didn't think of himself as super introverted or anything, but big crowds also weren't his favorite. It'd been nearly eight years since he'd been in a room with more than three or four people at a time. He'd been off ever since Kubrik's call, what it'd meant and what he'd said nipping constantly at Sam like a spider trapped under the covers. And this was also the first time he'd been away from Dean since that call.

He took a deep breath of the heavy air and summoned his father's voice:  _Man the hell up already, Sammy._

The crowd settled down before long, everybody finding their seats. A guy sat on Sam's other side, shorter than him by a couple of inches but much broader, folding his arms over his chest and spreading his knees. The roar dropped to a murmur as one of the women from the table outside mounted the stage, snapping her way to the microphone on high heels. She leaned in and smiled. Everyone winced at the squeal of feedback, especially the toddler to Sam's right, and the woman laughed embarrassedly.

"Sorry 'bout that, y'all," she apologized. "Let's get started, shall we?" She brought her hands together. "First of all, lemme just welcome everybody who came out today. It is so clear to me that all y'all not only heard the Lord's call, but answered it!"

There was a massive cheer at that. Beaming, looking like she was about to start jumping up and down with excitement, the woman waited until it faded away.

"We got a real special mission today," she told them all, sounding like she was telling a secret. "We are  _saving_ a  _soul_. Together with God, we are gonna take this sinner, and we are gonna raise him all the way up outta the flames of Hell!" She punched a fist into the air. There was another cheer. "Speaking of God, no way is He gonna hear us without His Voice." The capital letter was clear. "That's why we got the man who has been blessed with a direct line to the Lord since he was just a little child. And not only does he tell Him all 'bout what we got to say, He talks right back and lets His Voice here on Earth tell us all 'bout what He's got to say. We are all truly blessed to be here, in the presence of this holy man and his noble mission. I feel the Holy Spirit, I tell you. Do you?"

A resounding  _"YES!"_  rolled through the tent. Sam mouthed it.

"Then without any further ado, I give you the man who speaks for God Himself!" She backed away from the microphone, throwing her hands out towards the far side of the stage. "Father Eddie Norton!"

The applause was deafening, shouts and whoops and whistles rising above it. Sam dropped his now-damp pamphlets to clap. Next to him, the toddler began to cry, letting go of her soda so she could put her pudgy hands over her ears. Sam could barely hear her, but her mother tried to shush her as a man swept into the tent through a side entrance.

Father Norton certainly had a commanding presence. Sam would give him that. He was shy of six feet by quite a bit, silver-brown hair thinning significantly in front and on top, and sun damage pocked and pitted his cheeks. As soon as he set foot on the stage, the congregation fell into a reverent near-silence. Even the toddler subsided into quiet hiccups and whimpers.

Norton wore white preacher's robes and oversized sunglasses. Sam shifted in his seat, clearing his throat slightly and trying to throw off the Jim Jones vibes he was getting.

"Oh, my brothers and sisters!" Norton declared, in a voice that would've boomed even without the microphone. "I cannot even  _tell_ you how good it does my heart, to see so many of the righteous and faithful here today!"

Sam wondered, for a second, why  _he_  was here. All he really needed to do was talk to the poor idiot who'd sold his soul a decade ago and convince him to let Sam kill one of his hellhounds. Was it really necessary for him to sit here and suffer through the heat and the crowd and...this?

_Yes_. He answered his own question with a mental sigh. It was necessary to blend in, to win people's trust. Maybe even Father Eddie Norton himself. If the victim wouldn't talk to Sam directly, he'd probably be the best in.

Plus, Sam reminded himself in a forcible effort to be positive for once, he might learn something. He really,  _really_ doubted it. But maybe.

"We do indeed have a very special task before us today," Norton continued. "Yes? But before we get started, I have some very dark news. My wife, Maureen, my ever-faithful partner in my most holy cause, is very ill. In fact, she's in the hospital."

Gasps all around.

"Oh, it's the Devil," he went on, "of course it is. He's been dogging me since the day I was born. Of course he can't get to me, 'cause I've got the  _Lord's_  protection, so he goes after those I love." He sounded like he was about to cry. "Maureen's not doing well, but there'll be a collection plate coming around soon, and with all the donations I know you wonderful people are gonna give us, God's told me we'll be able to pay for the care she needs. And she'll pull through!"

As everyone cheered, Sam glanced to his left. The guy sitting beside him looked back and raised his eyebrows in a "can-I-help-you" kind of way. Sam returned his attention to the stage, embarrassed, and realized he was looking for Dean. He would've been the only one he could share an eye-roll with, over blaming anything on a Devil who'd been caged since the dawn of humanity. Let alone a likely-fake illness meant to milk cash out of people.

"God's also told me you need to buy my book," Norton told them all. "Because you know it's just  _chock-full_ of His word."

Sam looked down at the program in his lap, unfolding it to try and figure out how long this was going to last. Unfortunately, there wasn't any sort of time estimate in there.

"Most of you know I've got a series of DVDs, too..."

Norton kept talking, but Sam stopped paying attention, distracted by someone forcing their way down his row. People shifted, whispered harshly, and a voice that might as well have had its rhythms tattooed on Sam's eardrums muttered, "Yeah, I know, sorry, 'scuse me." When the intruder stopped in front of the man sitting right next to Sam, he looked up and saw the green eyes and freckles he'd been expecting.

Sam's first reaction was a kneejerk burst of happiness in the middle of his chest, quickly followed by  _Oh, no._

"Hey, man," Dean said quietly. "Think you could move to a different seat so I can have this one?"

The guy shook his head. "Sorry, bud. Should've got here sooner." He motioned for Dean to move out of the way. "C'mon. You're blocking the stage."

"Yeah, sorry. Please?" Dean stared down at him. "It's important."

"Not my problem," the guy stated. "You gonna get lost, or are we gonna have an issue?"

"Okay." Dean leaned down, got in his face. Sam watched him hard, but didn't see his eyes go black, or so much as one hair in the guy's short beard move telekinetically.  _"Move it."_

Without another word, the guy stood up. Dean gave him the room to do it, then dropped into his empty seat as he headed up the row towards the aisle, stepping on toes and bumping into knees.

"Thought you were gonna wait out in the car," Sam mumbled to Dean.

"Yeah, that was a great plan." Dean grabbed Sam's hand, down between their thighs so no one would see. His palm was cool and dry against Sam's sticky one. "But there's another demon here."

The mother of the toddler on Sam's other side looked sharply at them, and Dean flashed her a winning smile. "Figure of speech. Sorry, ma'am, didn't mean to spook you...cute kid, by the way." He dropped his voice, lower than it'd been before. "Crossroads. Probably the one that closed the deal."

"Where?"

Dean dipped his head just a little, towards the front of the tent. Right up by the state.

"Can it feel you?"

"Oh, hell no." Dean paused. "I'm sorry. I know we said I was gonna keep my distance so I didn't screw this up for us, but I just...didn't feel right leaving you alone."

"It's okay." The background anxiety that'd been churning and gnawing in the pit of Sam's stomach had faded, a sparking fuse plunged into cold water. Ironic, now that he knew there was a crossroads demon in here with them. "I'm...glad you're here." He squeezed Dean's hand.

Dean turned to smile at him, and Sam knew he could feel what he felt. The relief, the affection. For a couple seconds, they were alone in the tent. Sam felt safe, something that'd been rare for him for as long as he could remember, even when he'd had his own secure home. The knowledge he could lose it all had plucked at him every day at the cabin, often muted but never gone. Dean made him feel safe. Was the only thing that did these days. He didn't want to ever give that up.

The moment ended quickly, of course. Dean dropped the smile and looked up at the stage. But he kept his grip on Sam's hand.

Norton was wrapping up his sales pitch, finally. "Well, now. I guess it's about time we got started on what we all came here to do, isn't it?" A laugh from the crowd. "We are savin' a soul. We are rippin' it right outta the clutches of the Devil, where it's been since our man sold it to him ten years ago. We have today a sinner who had realized the error of his ways and wants to return to the path of the righteous. And God will hear his plea, with our help." He turned towards the entrance he'd come through, expectant. "Some of you may recognize his name, after how long he spent in that modern-day Sodom Los Angeles, in bondage to that mill of Satanism and sins of the flesh: the music industry.  _Rock'n'roll_." His voice dripped with disgust, and when Sam looked at Dean, the corners of his mouth were twitching in amusement. "You would not expect him to be here, seeking salvation, but please, my children. Welcome Blue Wilson."

Surprise rippled through the crowd before they began to clap again. Sam's eyebrows rose, and he straightened in his seat. Norton was right, he recognized the name, and it was definitely unexpected.

"Who the hell's that?" Dean leaned over so he could mutter in Sam's ear.

"Uh, pop star," Sam murmured back, very reluctantly letting go of Dean's hand so he could clap. Blending in. "He was really big when I was in high school, but he's been off the radar for...jeez, years."

"When you were in high school," Dean repeated. "So. 'Bout a decade ago." He settled back into his own seat as the clapping died down and another guy mounted the stage. "Definitely our guy, then, I'd say."

Sam remembered Blue from CD covers and torn-edge magazine pages taped to the insides of lockers. Kara had had a poster of him hanging on the wall of her room, and everything about that place had been stamped into the wet clay of his memory, since he'd lost his virginity there. Back then, Blue's thick blonde hair, sharp gray eyes, and chiseled abs easily sold music Sam hadn't ever really cared for. Now...well, he looked like hell, even though he'd only be in his early thirties at the latest.

The hair was thinning, everything that was left shot through heavily with silver. Sam felt a flash of sympathy, his own very recent hair issues coming immediately to mind. Blue's eyes were washed out and pale, the red edges and heavy bags pointing to chronic sleeplessness, and he'd put on weight, so the abs were gone. The polo and jeans he wore were rumpled like he'd just gotten off a plane, and even as he waved and smiled his way across the stage, he looked exhausted and hollow. Haunted.

Norton obligingly stepped back, giving Blue the microphone. The way he easily grabbed it off the stand, he was obviously used to handling one. He scanned the crowd with his bloodshot eyes as he started speaking, mostly just looking at the first row.

"I'd like to thank - " Blue began, then abruptly cut himself off with a little choking noise, staring down in horror at something directly in front of him. His eyes bugged, his throat worked.

And then he screamed. Sam winced heavily, hands going to his ears; mortal terror magnified by a microphone was like a screwdriver to the cochleae. The system overloaded, sound cutting out a second before Blue dropped the mic and bolted. He was off the stage and out of the tent in a matter of seconds, loudly knocking a crucifix and an easel holding a poster board of Jesus over in the process, leaving behind a shocked silence.

Nothing happened for a moment, then people began murmuring to each other, confused. The toddler was crying again, and her mother put her fan away and got up. Looking exasperated and embarrassed, she kicked the fallen soda from earlier out of the way and started to leave, mumbling apologies every time she had to squeeze past someone. On the stage, Norton stepped forward and picked up the microphone, probably trying to regain control of the situation. As he tapped and shook it to try and get it to work again, Dean chuckled quietly.

"Guess he saw the crossroads demon."

It wasn't just the woman with the toddler. Norton, still wrestling with the mic, raised a hand and called, "We'll have this all sorted out real quick, promise...patience is a virtue," but a handful of people all over the tent were rising to leave. Sam saw his chance and took it, doing his best to look as hot and tired and shaken as all the others when he got to his feet. Dean joined him.

Sam should've felt relieved, getting out of the tent. As relieved as he had when Dean had come in. And he did, at first. Until he happened to glance out across the sea of faces and realized he recognized a few.

They were scattered, probably not working together, probably not even aware each one of them wasn't the only hunter here. A couple wore the usual protective layers that were almost a uniform, a couple were dressed more like Sam, but they all had the same wary, alert look in their eyes. He'd seen them at the Roadhouse when he'd still been recovering, in the background at hunter gatherings, maybe up at his cabin once or twice. He didn't remember their names or if he'd ever talked to them, with the exception of one guy he was almost positive had brought him a box of naga eggs once.

Sam didn't see Kubrik. In fact, he didn't see anyone he knew for sure hated him or was connected to Gordon. That didn't seem to matter to his body, though, which reacted like he'd seen someone's eyes change color. Galloping heart, fresh crop of sweat, the whole nine yards. Not to mention what happened in his head.

Sam looked away. He could only hope they didn't see him, or that they wouldn't recognize him without three-quarters of the hair he'd used to have if they did. He could feel Dean's eyes on him. Because, of course, he'd noticed. Sam didn't say anything, just put a hand on the small of his back and hurried him out of the tent.

His phone, so new he hadn't even given the number to Ellen or Garth or Charlie yet, was heavy in his pocket. He'd turned it off before coming in here, but he still kept expecting it to buzz against his thigh, or ring loudly. He was afraid he'd answer it. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to hang up.

Dean waited until they got to the car (which, black and full of leather under the blinding afternoon sun, felt like a dragon lair when Sam climbed in) to say anything. His voice was perfectly casual, but Sam didn't buy it.

"This whole thing's shaping up to be heavier than we thought," Dean commented. The steering wheel had to be searing, but it didn't seem to bother him when he put a hand on it. "Big name, demon showing up early..."

"There are other hunters here, too," Sam said grimly. "Don't know why I'm surprised." He sighed, dropping his head and running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I should've expected it. We  _look_ for stuff like this, and it's a clear-cut hellhound case. Opportunity to kill a demon. Of course they'd come."

He knew they probably hadn't seen him, but he wanted to say they might've. He knew no one but Dean had his number, but he wanted to ditch his phone anyway. He wanted to  _leave_. But he knew he couldn't. He covered his face with both hands, dragged the fingers through his hair again. He still had a scab on the back of his head where the ghoul in Montana had ripped out a handful of hair.

Sam realized Dean was looking at him. When he returned the favor, he saw that he was slowly shaking his head.

"Don't do this, man," he stated.

Sam straightened up and licked his lips, which were starting to chap again in the heat. "Don't do what?"

_"This."_  Dean stuck the keys in the ignition, and hot air from the vents immediately blasted Sam. "The spiraling. The freaking out. What you do every single time something goes wrong, or seems like it's gonna go wrong, or - " He threw up a hand. "Might possibly someday go wrong. Pretty sure I've told you this before, but you are just a ball of nerves, Sam. Makes you a good researcher, good hunter, but...shit." He shook his head again. "You're gonna give yourself an ulcer before you're thirty."

"So you think I shouldn't be worried about these hunters?" Sam wasn't nearly as bitchy as he could've been. He didn't even point out that stress didn't actually cause ulcers.

"Not like you are," Dean replied, pulling out. "Not like you're getting."

"You know why I'm worried."

"Yeah." Dean looked at him, turning his head slowly. "I do. That call you got from one of 'em back in Oregon. It's been eating you all week."

Sam swallowed, hard. Dean hadn't said anything. But it was a guarantee he'd felt that Sam hadn't been able to let it go, despite the talk that they'd had. He somehow could never remember that his emotions were an open book to Dean.

"You remember when we had that fight?" Dean's voice was quiet, and Sam was sure he heard concern in it. "'Bout how we're a couple but neither of us were acting like it?" He waited for Sam to nod before he went on. "Well, you're doing it again. Not like you were before, but kinda. You aren't letting me help you. You aren't talking to me. You're my partner and I'm doing my damnedest to treat you like it. Least you can do is show me that same respect, don't you think?"

"You're right. I - " Sam rubbed at his eyes, screwing up his face as auroras of black colors spiked across the insides of his lids. "Jesus. I'm sorry." He dropped his hand. "I'm just...I guess I didn't wanna talk about it. Or think about it. He got my number somehow, and it had to've come from Charlie, or Ellen, or Garth, or - "

"D'you really believe that?" Dean interrupted. "D'you  _honestly_ believe any of 'em would've sold you out like that? Ellen's the only one I know, but I've heard you talk about 'em, and I know how you feel when you're thinking about 'em. This isn't on them, and you need to do yourself a favor and figure that out. Just like when you figured out they weren't gonna disown you over killing Gordon. There are lots of other ways to get a number."

Sam sighed, leaning back in the seat. He knew he'd had a nap earlier but he was already tired again. After a second, Dean reached over and grabbed his thigh, right above the knee. He squeezed.

"It's okay to be upset," he said softly. "But I don't like the way you let it take over. And I'm the friggin'  _king_ of unhealthy coping methods over here, nothing I hate more than talking about feelings, so that oughta let you know how worried I am about you." Sam half-smiled. "I'm your partner. You're mine. C'mon and, y'know, share the burden. So you don't get so goddamn worked up all the time."

Sam looked at Dean, and quietly said, "I don't think I deserve you."

"I mean, yeah." Dean agreed, but Sam got the feeling he meant it differently than he did. "Probably not."

"I'll try." Sam put one of his hands over Dean's. "Mostly 'cause I'm getting really sick of this conversation."

"Shit. Tell me about it." Dean kept his hand on Sam's leg, rubbing some, and it was quiet in the car as he drove them back to the motel. Dean hadn't even turned on the radio. When he spoke again, it startled Sam some. "So, I lied before. Few days ago, when you asked me about the hellhounds? I'm bothered."

Sam looked at him, and didn't say anything. Just squeezed his hand. It didn't seem like Dean needed any prompting.

"I haven't seen one since I died." His eyes were fixed on the road. "And I'd honestly be just fine never seeing one again, but not only am I gonna have to see a whole pack soon, I'm probably gonna have to get up close and personal with 'em." He laughed, weak and dry. "Kind of an understatement to say I'm not looking forward to it."

"Any way you can...control them?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "I mean, you're a demon."

"Not a crossroads demon, though," Dean replied with a sigh. "Hellhounds only do what they say. Not a whole lotta exceptions out there. And most of 'em have specific handlers." He looked at Sam, and his voice got stronger. "That's okay, though. I can do this. I gotta do this. We got your knife, we've got angel blades, goofer dust...and I've got you. Like I said on the last case, all I want's you at my back." He quirked an eyebrow. "You do have my back, right?"

"Yes," Sam answered firmly, then asked, "Do you have mine?"

"You know I do." Dean looked relieved. Maybe because Sam was feeling better, maybe because the conversation was over, maybe because he'd gotten the thing about the hellhounds off his chest. Maybe all of the above. He cleared his throat. "So. Next step's talking to discount Justin Timberlake, and I think you oughta do that."

"Okay. Sure." Sam didn't bother asking how Dean had heard of Justin Timberlake and not Blue Wilson. "And what're you gonna be doing?"

"Hellhounds are invisible," Dean replied. "Not to me, obviously, but you can't see them. And since making you a demon's not really an option, we're gonna have to go with the other one: glass scorched by holy fire." He tapped the knuckles of one hand against the window, which meant, very briefly, he wasn't holding the wheel. It actually didn't bother Sam all that much. "You look through that, you can see hellhounds."

"I...didn't know that, actually," Sam admitted. Which was too bad, because he could think of half a dozen situations right off the top of his head where that would've come in handy.

Dean looked at him with wide eyes and exaggerated shock. "You serious?" he asked incredulously. "Do I really, actually know something you don't? The great Sam Winchester? Genius, uh, child prodigy, published author..."

"I mean,  _self_ -published." Sam told himself he wasn't going to laugh. This kind of emotional whiplash couldn't be healthy. "And don't forget public enemy number one for about half the hunting community. Where'd you even find out about this?"

"Demon Tablet. My Prophet read it for me." Sam made his best "that-explains-that" noise and rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude, you've read tons of stuff I've never even heard of. I used a magnifying glass for my First Trial. Occurred to me later it would've been way easier just to do it with a cheap pair of reading glasses, so that's what you're getting."

"Sure. That'll work." As they got closer to the motel, Sam studied Dean. "You sure about this?"

"What?"

"Splitting up. Again."

"Well...I'll come with you to Blue's place, if you want," Dean started. "But I really don't think it'd go well for us. We know he's hallucinating, and seeing demon faces, and my true face'd freak him out way more than whatever you're gonna look like to him. Plus, we both know you've got better people skills than me. Which ain't gonna change anytime soon." He looked at Sam again, pulling into the parking lot. "I know we got split up on the last hunt, and splitting up for the revival didn't work out, but we're okay. And it's not gonna take me long. There's holy oil in the trunk, I'll be there before you know it so we can work out a plan."

Sam sighed. He wished he didn't feel like a little kid, knee-high, clinging to the leg of Dean's jeans with both tiny hands and crying at nearly everything. Considering he did seem to need constant reassurance, though, it was a good thing Dean was so great at it.

"It's a good plan already," he told Dean, the car going still around them and the barely-cool air dying as Dean killed the engine. "I can't believe we're really doing this. Finally. Starting the Trials, closing the Gates. Saving the world."

"Hell, yeah, we are."

Dean grinned at him. He hadn't taken his hand off Sam's thigh for the whole drive, and Sam had unconsciously scooted down the bench seat to make it more comfortable for him. They were close. Close enough that falling into a kiss felt as natural as pulling a trigger. Even though they were out in a car, in Texas, in a town full of people who'd come for an old-fashioned prayer revival and hunters who might want to kill them.

The air conditioning faded fast, desert sunlight pouring down, and Sam was already sweating. But Dean's mouth was soft and cool, his callused hand dry when he wove his fingers through Sam's hair, and Sam swelled in his slacks. The very edges of their lips rested against each other when Sam broke the kiss so he could pant softly. His eyes were closed, but he didn't have to look at Dean's groin to know he wanted Sam as much as Sam wanted him right now. Sam was aching to lose himself in him, and let Dean erase the ruined orgasm of a few days ago. He swore his balls were still tender.

They were both hesitating, though. Sam could feel Dean holding back, and couldn't quite let himself loose enough to close that distance. They just sat there, arms around each other, in the increasingly-hot car for a minute. Two.

"We prob'ly oughta wait." Dean's voice was a husky murmur.

"Yeah." Sam let out a breath, slow, to try and calm himself down. "We can celebrate once I'm done."

They pulled apart, climbed out of the car, went up the stairs. Dean unlocked the door. Before they went in, though, Dean caught Sam in another kiss. The puffiest parts of his mouth just barely brushed against the corner of Sam's, but that was enough to yank him in like a magnet. And now they were really out in the open, kissing where anybody could see them, call them fags or recognize them or just straight up come at them like they were monsters. Sam knew Dean didn't care.

Sam didn't, either. If any of that happened, with Dean here, they could stop it. Sam felt safe again, like he had in the tent. He felt light and happy and full of hope about what they were going to do, kissing his boyfriend, his Knight.

His  _partner_.

* * *

Dean drove Sam to Blue's hotel after he'd changed into a much more comfortable T-shirt and jeans. The gun and the knife were still tucked into his waistband, and he had a bag of goofer dust (collected from the graveyard in Montana) in his pocket.

"How d'you know where he's staying, anyway?" Sam asked, shaking his head. He'd redone his hair, too. No product; it'd just melt.

"Demon shit," Dean replied easily.

"Uh huh. And...that what you did to the guy in the tent, too? To get him to leave?" Dean just grinned at him. "Right."

Blue's place was, predictably, a lot nicer than theirs, a national chain with a sign none of the letters had burned out on and a parking lot that had clearly-painted lines. Dean ignored the spaces, just pulling up near the doors to let Sam out.

"He's on the fourth floor," Dean said as Sam opened the door, then grabbed his hand before he could climb out. It was just a brief squeeze, sliding over the gun calluses that'd covered up the pencil-holding ones during the summer, resting momentarily on the old, calcified breaks in Sam's fingers. But he felt the promise in it, to come back soon. And the firm belief that he could do this, would do this, could close the Gates Dean had never reached. "Room four-eighteen."

Swinging his legs out, Sam squeezed back and hoped Dean could feel the  _I love you_  in it.

"Go get 'em, tiger." Dean drove off.

Sam went inside, took an elevator up to the fourth floor. He was more aware of the weapons he was carrying here than he'd been at the revival, but no one even seemed to notice him. He found Blue's room easily. He hesitated, wondering how hard it'd be to talk his way inside, then knocked on the door.

"Mr. Wilson?" he called, then waited. He didn't hear anything from inside. "My name is Sam Winchester." There was no need for the rock star aliases Dean was so fond of, or the FBI persona. Blue wouldn't be where he was if he didn't know at least a tiny sliver of the truth. "You've probably heard this a lot lately, but I'm here to help."

Finally, Sam heard noise in the room. There was the soft, springy sound that nice beds made when you got up off them rather than creaking. His bed at the cabin had sounded like that. Then footsteps shuffled across the floor, and a weight rested against the door, a grown man leaning on it. Probably to look through the peephole.

"You kidding me?" Blue's voice sounded thick, like maybe he'd been crying. "Sam Winchester? Seriously?"

That was not the reaction Sam had been counting on, and he didn't like it. Warily, he asked, "You...know who I am?"

"I'm guessing you're not here because of my messages." There was a  _click_  as the lock disengaged, and then the door swung open. Blue looked exactly like he had in the tent, except maybe more tired now, his eyes more bloodshot. They were aimed firmly away from Sam. "Your face is, uh...you look like a zombie. But you don't look like what I saw back at the revival. Which I'm guessing was a demon." He closed his eyes, elaborated with a wave of his hand. "I found your website."

Sam looked down at the space between his boots and Blue's beat-up Chucks. There was a line of soil in the entrance to the room, low enough the door wouldn't mess it up when it was opened and closed. "I guess you did." He looked back up so fast he almost cricked his neck when his brain latched onto something else Blue had said. "Wait, what was that about the messages?"

"Oh," Blue said, like Sam had asked him about the weather. "Yeah. You know how you've got that function on your site where you can e-mail you directly?" Sam nodded and rubbed at his face, knowing exactly where this was going. "Yeah, I probably sent you, like, sixty or seventy of those over the past year. Asking if you could maybe help me with...this." He gestured vaguely and helplessly at basically everything. "I left a lotta comments on the relevant articles, too." He frowned. "Speaking of that. You might wanna rethink the whole comments section thing. There's kind of a lotta - "

"Yeah, I know." A sigh gusted out of Sam. "That's...why I haven't been checking my e-mail." It was like there was an iron chain sitting in his stomach, coiled and cold and heavy. He'd gone through the whole "consequences of not checking his e-mail" thing with Ash and still hadn't taken a look at his inbox in months. He made a mental note to do it the second this was all over, no matter what kind of toxic sludge came pouring out, because there might be more people like Blue in there. People who needed help. "I am so,  _so_ sorry."

"Hey, man, no hard feelings, right?" Blue offered Sam a crooked smile that echoed the one on all the posters. "I mean, you're here to help me now. Right in the nick of time." He laughed, almost giddily. "Come in, come in. Tell me how you're gonna save my bacon."

Sam stepped carefully over the line of goofer dust and followed Blue into the room. He toed the door shut, looking around as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The windows were huge and clear, taking up almost an entire wall and bathing the room in butter-colored sunlight. There was dust on the low sills, too. The TV was a flatscreen, the fluffy duvet on the bed wasn't faded or torn at all, and there was even a computer sitting on a desk beside a vase of fresh flowers. There were no cheap prints hanging crookedly on the walls. Instead, a mural covered one, a stylized map of Texas with roads and rivers and towns drawn out in bright primary colors.

"So you left the tent 'cause you saw a demon?" Sam asked Blue, focusing on him rather than the not-stained carpet and the not-flat pillows.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure? Don't know what else it could be." Blue went over to a comfortable-looking armchair near the windows and sank into it, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. It made him look, oddly, like some kind of harried professor to Sam. "And your site said I'd be able to see their true faces once I started getting...y'know. Close." He sucked in a deep breath. "It looked like a dead person. And, I mean, everybody looks like dead people right now, but this one was way worse. It looked like it'd been  _tortured_ before it died, like somebody cut it up and ripped stuff off it...it had these  _huge_ red eyes." He cupped his hands in front of his face to illustrate. "And there was smoke coming out of it. All of its holes. Red and black smoke. And the smoke around its head made it look like it had horns. Kind of like a goat, I guess."

"Yep." Sam cleared his throat. "That was definitely a demon." Blue's description matched all the other ones he'd ever heard or received secondhand, all the way down to the horns. They all had horns. And based on what little Sam knew about it, the more powerful the demon, the bigger and more elaborate the horns. He wondered what Dean's looked like. "A crossroads demon, going off the red. Probably the one that holds your contract."

"It was awful." Blue hugged himself and clamped his eyes shut, like he was trying desperately to kill a bad memory. "I just. Couldn't take it."

Sam looked at him, seeing how the stress and the fear was eating him alive from the inside out, a bellyful of teeth and claws and acid. His life had fractured around him, stable ground crumbling. He was struggling to find a piece big enough to stand on. And yeah, he'd done this to himself, invited this in, given his kiss even after all the consequences had been listed, but none of them had been real back then. He never would've made the deal if they had.

Sam felt a rush of aching sympathy for much more than Blue's decaying hair. He went to sit on the corner of the bed near him, folding his hands in his lap and looking at him earnestly.

"Mr. Wilson," he started quietly.

"Just call me Blue." He let go of himself and forcibly relaxed his face, breathing deeply and slowly without opening his eyes. Sam recognized stress-management techniques he'd probably gotten from a therapist. "Which is  _not_ the name I was born with; that's Ben.  _Benton._  But I've been Blue for ten years, even had my name legally changed, pissed my dad off so much he wrote me outta his will. So...just call me Blue."

Sam had nodded his way through the mini-monologue, answering it with a "Right. Blue."

"I'm sorry." Blue sucked his lower lip into his mouth, worried at it with his teeth. "I'm a mess."

"It's okay," Sam assured. "You're doing great." He smirked a little. "I know what it feels like to have demons hunting you down. You're allowed to be a mess."

Blue's eyes popped open, and they were full of hope. "You made a deal?"

"No," Sam admitted. "Just did something that really pissed Hell off." He considered, then went on. "Several things. And it wasn't just me. But they came for me, and I'm kind of still on the run, technically. It's...not fun. But." He took a deep breath as he leaned forward and squared his shoulders. His gun pressed hard against his spine. "What if nobody ever had to go through this again? No deals coming due, no being chased. No going to Hell because of something you did years ago."

Blue just frowned. Sam continued.

"I know you've read about the hellhounds and how they'll be coming after you." Sam was actually pretty impressed with the initiative Blue had taken. A lot of people didn't. "I wanna kill at least one and, uh...bathe in its blood." He coughed, self-conscious, and Blue sat straight up in his chair, eyebrows so high up his forehead they looked like natural extensions of his receding hairline. "I know it sounds completely nuts. And gross. But it's the first step in a ritual that's gonna close the Gates of Hell."

"Hell's got Gates?" Blue asked doubtfully.

"Apparently." Sam tossed his hands up. "And closing them will seal it up forever. There won't be any demons anymore, or hellhounds, or - or damnation." He felt like he got a little better at it every time he gave this speech. "That's what I wanna do. Make a world without Hell."

"That...does sound pretty nice," Blue admitted. His hands were on his knees now, squeezing. His nails were a nightmare. Torn, bloody, the beds bruised dark where Blue'd worked his teeth in too deep. There was also a nearly-black nicotine stain splotched onto the sides of his index and middle fingers. "You killing a hellhound when it comes for me." He cleared his throat. "Will that...save me?"

Sam hesitated. "It'll definitely buy you some time," he promised after a moment. "The only surefire way to get you outta the deal is to kill the demon holding your contract, and we're gonna try really hard to do that. Shouldn't be a problem; it's in town and we can find it."

"Okay. Okay." Eyes blank, Blue stiffly nodded five or six times, loudly sucking air in and blowing it out. "Well. Even if I do wind up getting dragged to Hell, you should kill the hellhound and do what you need to. Just 'cause I'm gonna burn for eternity doesn't mean anybody else should have to, right?" He laughed, and Sam had spent enough time panicking himself to pick up on the hysteria sewn into the sound.

"Hey." Sam got up off the bed (which was really comfortable, no weird lumps or wayward springs) and walked over to Blue. "There's actually not all that much burning involved." That didn't get the reaction he'd hoped for. He wasn't good at jokes. He wished Dean were here, shitty people skills or not. "You're not going to Hell. My hunting partner - who, trust me, is  _definitely_ not gonna let you go to Hell - is out making special glasses right now, ones that'll let us see the hellhounds."

"They're invisible," Blue mumbled.

"Yeah. But not when you're looking through glasses that've been treated with holy fire." Sam put a large hand on Blue's shoulder. His shirt was damp; he'd sweated through it, even in the hotel's crisp air conditioning. Sam gave him a comforting squeeze anyway. "When he gets back, we're gonna come up with a plan. We're gonna kill a hellhound and your demon."

Blue nodded again, more calmly this time. He was still chewing on his lip. "I guess I should trust you," he said softly. "I mean, you literally wrote the book on all this, didn't you?" He looked up at Sam. "D'you have any ideas right off the bat?"

"Well..." Sam looked over at the map, eyes bouncing from one large, empty space to another. "I'd rather not fight hellhounds on the fourth floor of a hotel."

"That's fair." Blue scooted out from under Sam's hand, freeing him to walk over to the wall. He heard Blue open a drawer in the nightstand and grab something out of it, then open the window the few inches it would let him. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see him pluck a cigarette out of the pack with his lips. The lower one was raw and swollen. "I'll go wherever you want me to."

Sam frowned. "Doesn't that mess with your voice?"

Blue snorted. "I don't sing anymore." He lit up with a cheap plastic Bic, blue. Of course. He angled his face towards the window he'd cracked, exhaling smoke through his nose, never touching the cigarette. He talked easily around it. "You smoke?"

"Uh, no." Sam shook his head. "My...dad would've killed me."

"Mine smoked like a chimney. Army." Blue was quiet for so long Sam figured he was done talking. He wasn't. "You must think I'm a fucking idiot."

"I don't think that." It was quiet, automatic, and true.

"Why not? I do." Reluctantly, Sam turned his attention back to the map as Blue smoked. "I didn't deal for a singing voice. A couple people in the congregation asked me that, but I could sing just fine. The trouble is everyone can, even in rural Iowa. Competition for a contract's fierce, even if you can make it to LA. Which I definitely couldn't. I sold my soul to be discovered."

"How'd you even know how to do the ritual?" There was a big, blank triangle, its points San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas, with Austin resting along the leg that was I35. Sam knew it was probably full of a thousand small towns. One of those might be good. "Not exactly common knowledge."

"My girlfriend back then was...witchy." Blue sighed. "Not a real witch. I read about those on your website, too. But she knew how to summon a demon. I thought it was bullshit, but I also thought I was gonna be the next Elvis, so I was desperate enough to try it."

"Was it worth it?" There wasn't a whole lot down by the border, either, but it'd be a long drive.

"I thought it was. For the first six years or so." There was a tapping noise, Blue knocking the ashes off his cigarette on the windowsill. Abruptly, he said, "I've got a son."

Sam turned and blinked at him, automatically noticing he hadn't disturbed the line of goofer dust by the window. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. He's seven." Blue put the cigarette back in his mouth. "There's probably more. I was...not a good person.  _Am_ not a good person. There's probably more, but he's the only one I know for sure. I've been thinking about him a lot."

"You...close?" Sam asked tentatively. Blue mostly just seemed to need someone to listen to him.

"His mom hates me. She's, um. I don't blame her." Sam looked at the map again. He wished he had his laptop. The wifi was probably super fast here. "When you didn't get back to me, and when I got down to having weeks left instead of months, I heard Father Norton on the radio. 'You're going to Hell, of course you are, but I can  _save_  you!'" Blue's impression was so spot-on it was honestly kind of eerie. "I thought it was a sign." Another sigh. "He's a huckster. Of course. Knew that as soon as I met him. But still, I...I figured...maybe, if I got enough people praying for me, all asking God to let me into Heaven or at least not send me to Hell..." He trailed off. "Doesn't really matter anymore. Didn't work. And today was it."

Sam paused. The light had gone from butter to the harsh, near-chemical orange you only got out in the desert, making him think of that Stephen King story about the haunted hotel room. "Wait." When he looked at Blue, he was lighting another cigarette off the butt of the first. "When." He cleared his throat. "When're you due?"

"Tonight."

Blue flicked the butt out the window. The cherry of his new cigarette was nearly invisible in the glow off the dying sun. Sam wondered if the howls he was suddenly picking up on the feathery edges of his hearing were real or imagined.

"Please," Blue implored quietly. "Help me."


	12. Chapter 12

_Magic is an extremely useful tool, from tracking spells to charms that are the only way to kill certain monsters. Some magic can only be performed by true witches, or_ _those born with a specific magical affinity, but there's plenty out there anyone can do._

_Since witches (click here to learn about them) are one of the things we hunt, you might be wary about using magic. You might also be wondering about the hypocrisy of hunting witches and using magic yourself. Everyone defines a malevolent witch differently, but I personally draw the line here: if you're not hurting anyone or drawing your power from a demon, you're fine._

_You'll want to be careful, though. You can do a lot of things with magic but it always has a price, and the higher the payoff, the more it'll cost. Simple rituals only require your time and the ingredients. Big ones, world-changing ones, will almost always physically harm someone. And if you're not a true witch who knows how to transfer and project, it's probably going to be you._

_\- "10 Useful Spells You Should Know," posted on website of Sam Winchester_

* * *

"So..you and your partner," Blue began as they walked down the sidewalk outside the hotel, past a payday loan office and a liquor store and a McDonald's. "How long have you guys been working together?"

The sun was setting fast, the brilliant orange having dulled to the point where Sam had to squint to see his hand in front of his face in the last ten minutes. A dry wind had picked up, too, a cold one. Sam was genuinely glad he'd gotten his hair cut; it would've been whipping into his face if he hadn't. Desert heat was still coming up off the ground, but even that was fading away. It was feeling more like November by the second.

Sam had just called Dean. He was on his way, glasses at the ready. They'd go, Sam'd decided, to the fairgrounds, where the revival had been. He'd wondered if it was the right decision, taking Blue out of the safety of his room, but he could not fight hellhounds inside a hotel.

"Uh," Sam began, doing a quick mental calculation. "Going on eight months now." Just looking at Blue, he could tell that wasn't nearly as long as he'd hoped.

"Have you ever stopped a demon deal before?"

"Well...no," Sam admitted. " _I_ haven't. He might've. He's got more experience than I do." How honest should he be? "Like, five of those eight months were just training, since I was so rusty."

"...oh." Blue was hunching in on himself next to Sam, and Sam didn't think it was because he was cold, although the wind was raising goosebumps along his own bare arms. Blue'd grabbed a jacket before they left the room, and shoved a bag of goofer dust into one of the pockets. "So, I gotta ask, man. From your website, it sounded like you were all R and D. No fieldwork at all. Why'd you start, uh, out and hunting again?"

"Oh, wow." Sam blew out a huge breath. He was calm and determined, just like he'd been ever since a brief moment of panic in the hotel, but now he was tired, too. "That's a  _long_  story."

He could tell Blue was going to press, insist he tell him, but Sam heard the throaty growl of a familiar engine before he could. He turned around, walking backwards, to see his father's car pull up to the curb, headlights bright in the dark. He wasn't even all that stressed. But he felt relieved anyway.

"Is that him?" Blue asked. "That's a  _nice_  car."

Sam snorted. "Tell him that. He'll definitely keep you outta Hell." He and Blue glanced at each other, then Sam looked away, embarrassed, and cleared his throat.

The passenger side door swung open as they walked up to the car, Dean leaning across the seat to grab the handle and push. He offered the two of them (mostly Sam) a grin, eyes clear and green. "Hey there, stranger."

Next to Sam, Blue snapped stiff, then grabbed his shoulder so hard Sam heard his knuckles creak.

"Sorry," Blue said with a shrill, exaggerated calmness. "Just got a. Got a quick question. Gonna be just a minute."

He swung Sam around, impressive considering he was half a foot shorter, then practically dragged him up off the sidewalk and into a narrow alley. Sam could feel the tension humming off him. Blue was squeezing Sam's shoulder with one hand and the other was in his jacket pocket, with the goofer dust.

"He's a demon," Blue ground out before Sam could ask him what was wrong. Sam blinked. "Or. Maybe he's possessed? Whatever, it's a demon. I think. It looks a little different from the one I saw in the tent."

"Oh," Sam said. "Right." He coughed. "I probably should've told you about that."

Blue stared. "Are you...you  _knew_? He's really a demon?"

"Holy shit," Dean yelled from behind them. "I'm a demon? Sammy, why didn't you tell me?"

Blue clapped a hand to his mouth, shaking, and it took Sam a second to realize he was trying not to laugh hysterically.

"Okay, yeah," Sam started, feeling like an idiot. He'd been so sure he had everything figured out, but he hadn't even thought of warning Blue about Dean. "He's a demon. A Knight of Hell, actually. His...Hell name or whatever is Dantalion." He pronounced it wrong on purpose. "But he's cool. I promise. Trust me, he's not gonna hurt you."

Blue looked entirely unconvinced. And pretty faint, grey around the eyes. He was still holding onto Sam tight, so Sam grabbed Blue's shoulder.

"You were on my website," Sam began soothingly. "You know where demons come from."

"I don't wanna turn into a demon," Blue blurted, voice thick.

"You won't."  _Hopefully._ "But back when Dean was human, he was a hunter. My...mentor's son. They took him out because he was trying to close the Gates of Hell, and now he's helping me." Sam smiled a little. "I've been with him eight months. I've killed monsters with him. This past week, we dealt with another demon together, and that's not the first one I've seen him kill."

Blue didn't say anything, even when Sam encouragingly added "He's on our side." He just sucked in one deep breath after another, eyes fixed on nothing. The wind tore past the mouth of the alley. At least he let himself be led back to the car when Sam turned him around.

"You don't have to like it," Dean told Blue as soon as he was within earshot. He was sitting in the passenger seat, leaning out of the car. "I won't even call you racist. Us demons definitely have an image problem, am I right?" Dean cracked a smile. Blue didn't. "So, yeah. Don't have to like it, don't even have to get in, but we're your best shot at beating this."

"And we're a package deal." Sam spoke firmly, then shook his head. "I'm really sorry. I should've...I should've told you about him."

"It's...okay." Reluctantly, Blue opened the door and climbed into the back seat. Dean slid over behind the wheel, Sam got in, and they pulled away from the curb. Sam's Carhartt was in the footwell. He gratefully shrugged into it.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel, but took Sam's with the other as soon as they were back on the road. He held it down on the seat between them, where Blue couldn't see, and his callused thumb ran over and over Sam's large knuckles in a slow rhythm. He didn't look at Sam and Sam couldn't feel much there, with all the scar tissue. Warmth sank through him anyway, and it wasn't the jacket or the heater Dean had running.

"Keep hearing howls," Blue mumbled once they were about halfway there. "Getting closer."

"'S just the wind," Dean replied. All three of them knew it wasn't.

Blue was so clearly right at the edge. He kept fidgeting in the back, apparently unable to sit still, and Sam could hear his shallow breaths rasping loud in his mouth. At one point, there was a soft click of metal and the  _shuff_  of paper sliding against itself.

"Light that in my car and I'll set your whole face on fire," Dean stated, and Sam twisted in his seat to see Blue shamefully putting a pack of cigarettes back in his pocket.

"Right, sorry," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his feet. "I'm sorry, Lord...?...Dandelion."

"He's not gonna do that," Sam told Blue as Dean exhaled forcefully through his nose. "But, yeah, probably shouldn't smoke in here."

Blue was silent, tucking himself into the corner of the seat on Sam's side, as far from Dean as he could get. Dean must've picked up on how scared he was, because he spoke to him in as gentle a voice as he seemed to be able to manage.

"Hey," he said. "Once the hellhounds are all dead, we're gonna give you a hex bag that'll hide you from demons. And then you'll be golden."

"They won't be able to find me again?"

"Not if you keep moving." Sam faced forward. "You might not even have to. Hex bags can work wonders, especially with lower-level demons."

He could all but feel Blue's panic, pounding against him like an ocean, but there weren't any answering waves inside Sam. He was just focused on stopping it for Blue. On completing the Trial. On doing what he'd set out to do.

His hand was still in Dean's. Dean squeezed it gently.

By the time they got to the fairgrounds, a bright sliver of crescent moon had risen in the clear sky, and the wind had died down some. The tent, still up, swelled and snapped whenever a gust rolled through. When Sam peeked inside, he saw it was as empty as the parking lot outside. No chairs, no people, just ruffled dirt and trash that seemed to be mostly Father Norton's pamphlets. And the stage, bare and lonely.

"This is good," Sam decided. They'd be able to hear it if a hellhound ripped through the fabric, at least.

He shook out a circle of goofer dust up on the stage, then waved Blue (who'd been practically glued to him since they got out of the car) into it, eyes wide in the darkness. The white roof of the tent glowed with moonlight above him, but it wasn't quite enough. He was grateful when Dean passed him a flashlight along with the glasses he'd treated, a simple pair of wire rims.

"Thanks." Sam slipped them on. He'd never needed glasses, so they felt weird against his ears and nose. He clicked the button on the flashlight and immediately looked at Dean, then frowned.

"Oh, good, they fit," Dean commented. "Had a hell of a time finding a pair I didn't think'd squeeze your giant face." He noticed Sam's frown. "What?"

"Nothing." Sam'd been hoping he'd be able to see Dean's true face with the glasses on, understand what'd scared Blue so bad he couldn't look anywhere near Dean even now. His eyes kept skating away whenever Dean got close to his circle. Obviously, though, it didn't work that way.

"Hey, uh," Blue called from the stage, voice week. "What - what now?"

"We wait," Dean called, then looked up at the stage. Blue immediately dropped his gaze. "Christ, man, you're shakin' like a leaf...you can smoke now, if you want." Dean turned his attention back to Sam as Blue fumbled in his pockets and then quickly gave up. Dean stepped in close to Sam and dropped his voice. A casual hand landed low on Sam's back, near his hip. "So. What's your plan?"

Sam laughed and, for the first time since the hotel room, felt a flicker of anxiety. "I don't really have one."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Well..." Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, leaning into Dean's touch. "There's gonna be more than one hellhound, and I figure you and I are gonna take out most of 'em." Now that he was thinking of it, he reached back and grabbed his knife out of his jeans with his free hand. "We'll leave one alive. A bowl's too hard, so I guess I was sort of thinking you'd hold it and I'd kill it? Cut it, so it bleeds on me. I don't know." He glanced down at his jacket. "Just remind me to take this off before I, uh, bathe in its blood, though, 'cause it was expensive and I'd rather not ruin it."

"You're such a girl," Dean said, snorting, but then gave Sam a pat. "Anyway. That sounds like a plan to me."

A smirk was tugging at the corner of Sam's mouth when Dean suddenly looked away from him, towards the tent's entrance. He wasn't freaked out or anything. His hand didn't even tighten on Sam.

"We've got company."

Sam had no time to ask what he was talking about before someone stepped into the opening, just a black silhouette against the soft light outside. Sam aimed the flashlight at them, knife at the ready, as the calm inside him cooled and crystallized into something harder.

It was a woman, late thirties or early forties. Sam didn't think he'd seen her at the revival, but doubted he'd remember if he had. She didn't exactly stick out. Jeans and a tee, flat brown hair, average face. Her only stroking feature was her eyes, black with a galaxy of red in the middle. Up behind Sam, Blue made a wet noise, sounding like he was about to throw up.

"Well, well, well," the crossroads demon said, amused. The flashlight didn't seem to bother her at all. "I knew there were hunters here. Of course. But you two are obviously the cream of the crop. I mean, you actually got a hold of my target; all the others either left town or tried to talk to the 'Voice of God.'" Her eyebrows rose, and she looked from Sam's knife to the angel blade Dean must have been hiding in his jacket until now. " _And_ you're packing the real deal, I see. Aren't I a lucky girl?"

_She doesn't know who we are_ , Sam realized, the revelation hitting him all of a sudden. She didn't recognize Dean's vessel, couldn't feel what he was. And she didn't know Sam from Adam.

Either Hell's brass hadn't gotten around to putting the word about them out to the crossroads demons, or she was one of the free agents Dean had mentioned. Hadn't been consolidated. The researcher in Sam wondered which one it was; the rest of him just recognized a lucky break.

"Not that it's going to do you any good," the demon went on. "I knew Blue was trying to welch. That's why I brought my whole pack along, just in case he picked up someone who actually knew what they were doing."

There was no way for Sam to mistake the howl he heard, eerie and wavering, for the wind or his imagination. The demon smiled, Blue moaned from deep in his chest, and a thin worm of fear broke through Sam's icy determination.

Dean shifted towards him, just barely. Sam got the message loud and clear:  _She can feel it, too._  He locked down on what he was feeling, brought it back under control.

The demon smiled at him in a "you're-not-fooling-me" kind of way. "Nothing to say? What's the matter, dog got your tongue?" She faked concern. "Well, boys, it's been a blast, but...I think I'm going to send in the 'hounds now. I'll be back in an hour or two to show the reaper the paperwork and collect your souls.  _All_ your souls, hopefully." She grinned. "Three for the price of one! I'm going to make employee of the month!"

She was gone in the space of Sam's next blink. A howl, closer than the first, rose above the low whistling of the wind, then a second, then a third. An involuntary shiver twitched through Sam. It was truly cold now, temperature falling through the forties or maybe even the thirties, and his hands were starting to hurt. There was a hollow  _thud_  behind him. Blue'd fallen to his knees on the stage, face numb with horror, white showing all the way around his irises.

"Hey, man, c'mon, buck up," Dean said, voice encouraging. It was pretty obvious he was forcing it, but at least he was trying. "We're in the worst of it now and we're gonna make it through. She ain't comin' back. Not once she realizes we ganked all her 'hounds."

Blue didn't respond, just audibly swallowed and then began to violently tremble. Dean gave up on him and turned his attention to Sam. "How 'bout you? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm...fine," Sam assured Dean, because if he said anything else, it wouldn't be true anymore.

Dean hesitated, and Sam could all but see him fighting with himself. One side won out and he stepped close again, closer than he'd been before, only inches between them, foreheads barely touching and breath warm and vaguely sulfurous on Sam's face. It was more intimate than a kiss, somehow.

"Bet he wishes he felt as good about this as you do," Dean murmured, clearly talking about Blue as he cupped the back of Sam's head with one hand.

"I know we're gonna pull this off." Sam let his nose rest against Dean's, although the glasses made it awkward.

Another tiny hesitation from Dean. "Yeah, but...he's still going to Hell. You know that, right? Even with the hellhounds gone, even with the hex bag. Soon as he dies, the reaper's taking him straight down. He's marked."

"No." Sam pulled back. Dean let go of him. "He's not. He won't be. Know why?" He drew in a breath of cold air. "Because the Gates are gonna be closed years before he dies. By me."

It was hard to tell in the dark, with his flashlight currently pointing down at the dirt, but Sam thought Dean might be smiling at him. Proud. It didn't last long. Another howl, so loud it vibrated in Sam's skull, rolled through the tent and ended in a snarl. Something ripped past the heavy canvas wall like wet paper, and Blue yelled.

Sam whirled and there, exactly as he'd been expecting, was a hellhound. He'd heard them described in mythology as red-eyed black dogs, seen drawings of them where they were woven out of tortured souls and scraps of meat. There were no eyewitness accounts. The only people who could see them (the damned) pretty much never survived the encounter.

It was a distortion in the air, transparent, the shadows of flames and lightning rippling upwards around the shape of a massive dog. The legs were long, the back hunched and muscular, and even though there was only the suggestion of teeth in the gaping mouth, that was enough to show how sharp they were. Dull red eyes, screened by its aura, were fixed cold on Blue.

It prowled slowly into the tent through the hole it'd ripped. Sam tensed, ignoring his kneejerk instinct to charge right at it. He was back-to-back with Dean, like they'd been in the graveyard in Montana, and it didn't seem to have even noticed them yet.

_Wait until it gets closer. Hold the position._

"Least a dozen more where that one came from." Dean's voice was tense and he pressed his broad shoulders right up against Sam's. "They're just circling." Sam felt Dean's head turn slightly. "Hey. That gun you got in your jeans. It's loaded with salt rounds, right?"

Sam snorted as quietly as he could manage. "Course. They're dipped in holy water, too."

"Awesome." Fabric ripped on Dean's side of the tent as another hellhound entered, growling low. "Until you're actually gutting one, then, put your knife away and get your gun out. Won't have to get as close that way."

It was good advice. Sam took it, thumbing the safety off as soon as the gun was in his hands. "Sure these bullets'll drop 'em? I didn't think guns could do the trick."

"Maybe a machine gun. Not a pistol." Sam heard a slide rack. Dean must've had one on him, too. "Hit 'em a couple times, though, and they usually turn tail. Not used to their prey fighting back, and these ones probably aren't trained super well, either."

Sam got it. Dean didn't want to get close enough to kill any until it was totally necessary, and looking at the mastiff-sized beast making its slow, predatory way to the stage, that was a plan Sam could get behind. He waited until the hellhound put a paw on the bottom step, wood creaking loudly under its weight. Then he took aim at the center of its considerable mass and squeezed off a shot.

He hit it directly in the ribs. Black blood exploded off it and its rippling aura swirled around the wound. It yelped, the sound needling Sam's heart even though he knew it wasn't a real dog, and then snarled ferociously. The huge head swung towards him. There was more yelping and snarling behind him as Dean fired three rounds, one right after the other. From the sound of it, they all found their mark.

Sam's hellhound charged and he held his ground, pressing back hard against Dean. At least it'd forgotten about Blue. Sam squeezed the trigger again, hit it right in the face this time, a thrill rolling through him. It jerked back, staggering, whimpering and shaking blood from its head, then looked at Sam and his gun. It snarled weakly before it turned and bolted through the hole it'd made coming into the tent.

"Attaboy." When Sam glanced over his shoulder, he found Dean's face, grinning at him. The expression was a little tight. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Be nice if they were all that easy," Sam agreed, breath coming hard and heart hammering in his chest.

They weren't. Of course they weren't. But Sam hadn't really been expecting them to be. Dean drove his hellhound off and then the two of them got a quick thirty-second breather, Blue whining softly to himself behind them. Then a chorus of howls hit, rising steadily as an orchestral symphony, and the rest of the pack converged. They tore their way into the tent like the first two had, stalked through existing holes, came in through the front. They all gathered in front of the stage, a lake of flickering shadows and red eyes and teeth. The combined growls rattled in Sam's breastbone, worse than the recoil of his handgun. There were at least ten. It was hard to count when they were so close together, their distortions and auras overlapping.

"Shit," Sam breathed, as he and Dean separated and backed slowly up against the stage. The hellhounds padded forward with every step they took, leaving huge prints in the dirt. "Shit, shit, shit..."

"Yeah," Dean agreed grimly. "Shit." He offered his gun to Sam and pulled his angel blade out. Sam was close enough now to see the duct tape he'd wrapped around the handle so he didn't have to touch it. "Okay, new plan. I'm gonna pick off as many evil Rin Tin Tins as I can, and you keep the rest from reaching the stage." He glanced behind him. "And Mr. Big-shot Pop Star back there from cutting and running, 'cause he ain't looking so hot."

"All right," Sam agreed, putting Dean's gun in the pocket of his jacket for when his own ran out of ammo. He took a look at Blue and personally thought he seemed frozen with fear, but he'd keep an eye on him anyway. "Let's do this. And remember to leave me one."

"You got it, baby," Dean replied, flashing another tight grin before he teleported. Sam put himself right in front of Blue, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and took aim at the closest hellhound.

These didn't run as easy as the first two had, even with a few bullets sunk into them. They took a few steps back when Sam hit them, snarled, flinched. Black blood spattered the dirt, steaming and glittering whenever Sam's flashlight swept over it. But they didn't take off, pushing closer and closer. Sam's jaw was clenching around the time his gun clicked empty, a wall of bleeding, growling hellhounds only a few yards away from him. The wire of his glasses dug into the soft skin on the bridge of his nose and behind his ears, sore and itchy.

Dean circled the flanks of the pack, popping in and out of view, angel blade in hand. Demons died instantly no matter where they got stabbed with one of those, but it had to be a fatal blow with a hellhound, to the skull or the heart or an artery. Dean was better at wounding them as they turned to snap or lunge at him. His carefully-controlled expression wasn't convincing.

He finally killed one as Sam watched, the body melting into the dirt after it slumped to the ground, and then three came right at him. No - four. They pushed him towards the far side of the tent, herding him. They dodged his blade and it looked like they could tell where he was going to teleport. Even from here, even in the dark, Sam could see the all-too-human fear slipping through the cracks in his mask. Dean's gun kicked in Sam's hand as he tried to focus on him, the hellhounds, and Blue all at once.

One of Dean's hellhounds caught him in the leg. It was just a glancing blow, but his jeans tore and there was blood. The wound steamed. Dean's eyes flickered black, raw panic flooding his face, and Sam's own leg cramped in sympathy and his chest went tight.

"Dean!" he yelled. Dean's fake calm came back and he offered him a thumb's-up with his free hand at the same time the hellhound at the front of Sam's pack slammed forward, taking advantage of his distraction. It was the main one Sam'd been focusing on, four bullet holes already in it. Sam just about destroyed its face now, firing over and over again between its eyes and into its mouth, as he pressed himself against the stage so hard it left a bruise. The hellhound turned away right before it reached him, gurgling whimpers out through what was left of its muzzle.

Sam forced himself to stop shaking as it fled through one of the gaping holes in the tent. His hands and the arms of his jacket were flecked with blood and flesh that tiny, shadowy flames were still wavering off of. Was that enough for the Trial? Probably not.

"We're gonna die," Blue mumbled. Sam could barely hear him over the growling and snapping of the hellhounds. "I'm going to Hell. They're gonna tear you apart."

"Nope," Sam replied shortly. He put his hands on the stage and swung himself up onto it. The pack pressed closer, but when Sam lifted Dean's gun again (not even sure how many bullets were left in it), they scattered. Some just shied away, most ran off. A breathless laugh burst out of Sam, then another one when he saw Dean hit one of his hellhounds between the ribs, shove the body off his blade, and turn to the others with new bravery. "Not so tough without your leader, are you?"

The remaining hellhounds snarled and held their ground. Sam turned to check Blue's circle of goofer dust, just for a second. He barely heard Dean desperately scream "Sammy - " before a shadow-wrapped missile of muscles and teeth knocked him off the stage.

He was on his back in the dirt. He'd dropped the gun and flashlight, but the knife was still in his jeans, the handle digging painfully into his spine. And there was a hellhound above him, desperately trying to crush his face in its jaws. Sam had both hands around its throat, squeezing hard and barely holding it back. He knew he wasn't gonna be able to strangle it.

It felt exactly like a dog, which he remembered from the captive one he'd killed. Smooth fur and hot flesh under the shadows. Its breath steamed his glasses solid white, reeking of sulfur and rotting meat, but he didn't have a free hand to pull them off. Sam could hardly breathe with its paws on his chest, claws digging into him even through his jacket. His elbows creaked and bent as his strength ran out, the hellhound forcing its way closer. Dean barreled into it right before it reached his nose.

Sam sat up and flipped himself over before he'd fully processed what'd just happened. Dean had taken the hellhound clean off him, buried his blade to the tape-wrapped hilt in its skull. Sam reached for the small of his back and grabbed his knife. The antler handle was alien against his cold-numb palm. And then there was a hellhound right in front of him, snarling, going for his chest or maybe his throat, and he stabbed it without thinking. He threw his whole weight behind his knife, right above its collarbone, and its whimper was cut short as it collapsed. He yanked his knife free of the melting meat and scrambled to his feet, everything sharp and bright with adrenaline.

Dean was still on the ground. He grabbed Sam as soon as he got close, using him to haul himself up with a groan. Sam looked at Dean's leg, the ragged, dark edges of denim and flesh. Something white gleamed deep inside the wound he'd thought was so shallow. Sam's stomach lurched, his left leg cramped hard, and acid-edged memories flooded him.

He wouldn't let himself drown. Not right now. He fought his way free to grab Dean back, tight, and grind out, "Jesus, Dandelion."

"Doesn't even hurt," Dean assured with a weak grin. "I'll heal it soon."

It dawned on Sam, studying Dean's face, how bad he looked, even accounting for the darkness and the moonlight. His vessel was pale, his black eyes flickering. And he looked...haunted. Shaken. The mini-pack he'd been dealing with, at least, was nowhere to be seen.

"Decided to try and take 'em out with, y'know, demon shit," Dean told Sam, attempting to airily wave a hand. "And it worked! So I got a new trick." He seemed proud. "But it also kinda wiped me out."

"Well...at least it worked, right?" Sam smiled, then began to count. Three killed by "demon shit." Two by angel blade. One by demon-killing knife. The rest had run, so there should only be more left. Which was perfect.

But then Sam looked at the stage. At the circle of goofer dust, and the wide swath he must've accidentally scattered when he got taken down. At Blue desperately trying to gather it back into place. And at the hellhound that charged up behind him, sailed over the broken boundary with no issue at all, and knocked Blue flat as it sank its teeth into the meat of his arm.

Blue screamed. He tried frantically to yank himself free and scrabbled uselessly at the goofer dust. Sam was already running when Dean shoved him towards the stage and yelled "Go! Go, go! Not gonna be able to hold it long!"

The hellhound rose into the air, jaws tearing away from Blue, doggy-paddling like it couldn't believe what was happening. The lift was jerkier than Dean's usual telekinesis, but he held it, and moved it away from Blue as Sam pounded up the stairs, throwing his coat off as an afterthought. He fell to his knees in front of the hellhound, looked up at its red eyes and its glass-like fangs and its warped face. And then he slit its throat.

Blood, scalding hot in the cold, gushed over him. It hit his face first, his hair, his shoulders and chest and back. His knife hand and his forearm and his thighs. He got it in his nose and mouth and it was putrid; he fell forward onto his hands and knees to spit and gag. It was already drying, tacky and cooling fast, when he got it together and crawled over to Blue. His tee and jeans clung to him, hair matted to his skull. His glasses were totally coated. He pulled them off and threw them aside.

Blue was just sitting there, legs folded, face calm, hand clutching his shredded bicep. Blood was pulsing weakly over his fingers.

"We did it!" he announced happily as Dean limped up onto the stage. He handed Sam his flashlight, and Sam turned it on, examining Blue's arm. He probably wasn't going to lose it, at least. But the wounds were deep, punctures and cuts, and there was a lot of blood. He was literally sitting in a puddle of it. So was Sam, the stuff dripping off him. They were different colors, though.

"Yep. We gotta get him to a hospital." He looked up at Dean. "I'd like to wrap it and get a tourniquet on it, too, but..." He lifted his hands. He'd flushed open wounds with rotgut whiskey before, but he didn't think he should get hellhound blood in them.

"On it." Dean limped off, but not before flashing Sam a warm, dazzling, giddy smile that said the same thing Blue had:  _We did it._

You  _did it._

It felt good.

"You sure I have to go to the hospital?" Blue asked casually. "I feel great."

"Yeah, you're in shock." Sam got up, shaky now the danger was gone, and retrieved his jacket. He hesitated a second before giving it to Blue. "Here. Ball that up and hold it on your arm. Keep pressure on it."

"Okay." Blue did as he was told, and then beamed up at Sam. "You really did it, huh? You saved me. I'm alive. I'm not going to Hell, and you did your...Quest..."

"Trial."

"Yeah, yeah. To kill all the demons. Or something. But not Dandelion, you're right, he's cool." Blue swallowed, tearing up. "You saved me. Thank you, thank you so much, I don't know - I - "

Sam smiled. "You're welcome." He knelt, in the blood and the dirt, and tried not to shiver. He was freezing his ass off. There was silence between him and Blue for a while, broken by Dean returning with the first aid kit.

"Hey. Can I smoke now?" Blue asked hopefully.

_"No."_

* * *

They dropped Blue in the ambulance bay of the nearest hospital, a freshly-made hex bag in his pocket and a tourniquet high up on his arm. They stayed just long enough to make sure he made it. He walked in on his own, which was a good sign, and hadn't ever lost consciousness, thanking them over and over again and talking about how great he felt for the whole drive. Sam watched him all the way up to the doors.

"Don't worry, Samantha," Dean reassured him as they pulled away. "I'll buy you a new jacket, and it'll be even prettier than that one." Blue'd still been holding Sam's Carhartt. Not that Sam wanted it back, with all the blood on it.

Sam snorted and shook his head. He hadn't trusted Dean behind the wheel, so he was driving with gloved hands and two layers of towels under him. "Jerk."

Dean grinned. This was their new thing. "Bitch."

It was early in the morning when they got back to the room. Dean was already doing better, cracking jokes and walking without a limp. He was also in a crazy good mood, flying high. The muscle had filled back in on his leg and freckled, hairy skin was slowly covering it like creeping mold. It made Sam feel a little sick. But he couldn't stop watching.

"So, you ready?" Dean asked.

"Huh?" Sam tore his eyes away from Dean's leg.

"You ready to finish the Trial?" Dean elaborated. "Not quite over yet. Gotta recite the incantation, get started for real. Then you probably oughta take a shower." He looked Sam up and down. "After that, we'll get outta here. Just in case."

Sam took a deep breath, blew it out. "Okay. All right. I'm ready."

Dean nodded. "Repeat after me, then. It's Enochian. Ka...na...om dar."

Sam quietly recited the chant, the gravity of the situation, weighing down on every inch of him. There was maybe half a second where nothing happened, long enough for Sam to wonder if Dean had maybe remembered the words wrong. Then the pain hit him.

It floored him, every muscle in his body tight and aching. His bones felt hot inside him, searing the flesh around them, and his pulse was loud and agonizing in his ears. He gasped, then cried out. He did his best to keep it quiet but it  _hurt_ , like the fever he'd had when his leg was so infected he was running the risk of septic shock. Especially his right arm. When he looked at it, he could see every vein in it, both bones, because silver-white light filled it. It even shone through the hellhound blood, rolling and pulsing like an ocean.

Dean had fallen to his knees when Sam had, stroking his blood-clotted hair and murmuring soothingly to him. His eyes were shockingly, violently green when Sam looked at him, lit up by the glow off Sam's arm.

All at once, it faded. It'd only lasted a few seconds. Sam felt nothing but tired, as tired as he should after staying up all night stabbing hellhounds. Staring at Dean, he caught his breath.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me it was gonna  _hurt_?" Sam demanded.

"'Cause you would've gotten all worried like you do," Dean replied reasonably. "Everything worth doing's gonna suck. But it wasn't even that bad, was it?"

"No," Sam admitted. Just like a really bad fever, and it hadn't lasted all that long. "So I..." He looked at his arm, no longer glowing. "I'm doing it? I started?"

"Sure did. You and me, baby." Dean kissed Sam's temple, then grimaced and spat directly onto the filthy carpet. "Okay, seriously, you gotta shower this crap off."

"Oh, god. Yeah." Sam let Dean help him to his feet, then glanced longingly at the bed, made with worn sheets and saggy in the middle. "Hey, you sure we gotta leave tonight? I don't wanna - " He stopped talking, barely even realized it. Something was wrong. Something had shifted in his brain, a fault line releasing, making everything strange and unsettling. He swallowed, and his teeth tingled.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was muffled. "Hey." He touched Sam, but there were so many layers between them. "You okay? What...what the hell's this feeling I'm gettin' off you?"

"I don't...feel - " It was then that Sam's cerebrospinal fluid caught fire.

Of course it didn't really, and he'd understand that later, but right now, he was in way too much pain to think logically. Everything above his neck was a flat sheet of pale agony. He clutched at a face he couldn't believe wasn't shattered, a skull he couldn't believe wasn't gaping open, squeezed, clawed. He bruised and bled but it didn't make any difference. His brain was burning. His thoughts were broken razor blades.

Sam knew he'd fallen back to the floor, and that Dean was next to him, touching him, shaking him, yelling. He couldn't understand him and nothing mattered but how bad it felt. It built and built and then Sam just...shattered.

The pieces came back together. The way they did was weird and wrong, all surreal angles and sickening light and shivering around the edges. It took him too long to figure out what was going on. Bobby Singer, looking so much older than the last time he'd seen him, in a wheelchair but still wearing his trademark mesh-backed ballcap. And Vaughn, hair cropped short, blue eyes hard. They were sitting at a scarred table in a light-flooded kitchen. Bobby was showing Vaughn how to load a gun.

It shattered again, reformed. New scene. A man, maybe a decade older than Sam, with a serious, tired face and messy black hair. He was wearing a trench coat and a backwards tie, and his eyes were bluer than Vaughn's. Sam thought it might be raining. Lightning flashed, throwing the guy's shadow huge on the wall behind him, and he had wings.

Another shatter. And there was Sam himself, looking like he'd just gone ten rounds and lost. His hair was a little longer, in addition to all the bruises and blood. It was dark, high ceiling, big windows. Maybe a church? And Dean was roughly wrestling Sam to the ground, eyes black and teeth bared in a grimace.

And then Sam was back in his body. Back in the room. He was limp on the floor, his mouth tasting like he'd thrown up, and his face felt like he'd been crying, wet and sore. Dean was yelling at the top of his lungs. And the pain was finally, finally gone

Sam only got to enjoy it for a second or two, though. Then he passed out.


	13. Chapter 13

_Ash -_

_Have to take Jo school shopping in Cheyenne so you & Sam are on your own. Sorry in advance._

_He should sleep most of the day but MAKE SURE he takes his pills. ALL his pills, including the pain ones. If he says he doesn't need them he's lying. Don't feel bad about poking his leg to make him admit it._

_He can dress his own wound. He can go out in his wheelchair but you HAVE to go with him. If he really wants to, he can study for his GED. DO NOT let him walk, help out at the Roadhouse, or guilt you into telling him about any cases that need working. Ignore his whining._

_Paperclipped $50 for your trouble. Good luck._

_Ellen_

_\- Note from Ellen Harvelle to Ashton "Ash" Harvelle, c. 2001_

* * *

Sam woke up in the most comfortable bed he'd been in for the better part of a year.

There was a second where he was dead convinced he was back at his cabin, in the bed he'd carefully outfitted for his own comfort. He wasn't out of it enough to believe it for long, or to miss the differences between his bed and this one, but it was close. Firm, supple spring mattress. Sheets clean and soft against his skin. Comforter heavy on top of him.

How awesome the bed felt really made how terrible Sam himself was feeling stand out. He'd just woken up and could already tell that he was in crappy shape. He had no idea how long he'd slept, but he was still tired, and he felt heavy and weak to the point where even thinking about moving was tough. He had the aches in his legs and back and the shivering sensitivity in his skin that he'd learned meant fever, after the many, many fevers he'd had. His throat was sore and his mouth was dry.

There was also a headache nestled deep in his sinuses, but after what'd hit him when he completed the First Trial, he barely noticed that.

Sam stayed put, but pried his eyes open. His lids were gummed together and his vision was blurry; both of those things cleared up pretty quickly.

He was in a room with a low ceiling and a couple of white-shuttered windows. Weak gray light filtered through the wooden slats. A blue strip ran around the bottom of the room, right above the floor's dark boards. A rope net hung on one wall, there were a few pieces of driftwood mounted on another, and there was a big jar full of sea glass on the nightstand Sam was facing.

Rain was drumming steady on the roof, an occasional gust throwing it against the windows like a shower of pennies. Sam wasn't breathing very easily through his nose, but the sharp smell of the ocean made its way in with no issue.

He was curled on his side, and rolled himself over onto his back with a dry groan. Chills flashed up and down his body as he slowly forced himself to sit up. His head spun, and he closed his eyes to get a hold of who and where he was again, and when he opened them, Dean was in the room. Just having him there centered Sam in a way he hadn't known he needed.

"Hey." Dean came to sit on the edge of the bed, getting the lamp on the nightstand. Its shade, a bunch of layered clam shells, glowed with the colors of a sunset. "You're up." He touched Sam's hair, gently. It was messy, all the near-bald spots probably exposed. The feel of Dean's hand was a very simple pleasure. "How you feelin'?"

When Dean smiled, it was a little thin.

"Uhh," Sam started, then coughed to try and shake loose whatever was muffling his voice. "Like I got run over by a bus."

"Yeah, you look like it." Dean smirked with one side of his mouth, running his fingertips over Sam's scalp.

"Where are we?" Sam asked when Dean didn't say anything else.

"Surfside Beach, Texas." Dean shifted his weight more fully onto the bed. The mattress didn't even creak. "On the Gulf. In a 'honeymoon cottage.'" He grinned. "It's the off season, so it was super cheap to rent, but don't you ever say I never take you anywhere nice."

Sam was able to muster a small smile, leaning into Dean's touch. There was silence for a minute, nothing but the sound of the rain and Dean's calluses rasping over Sam's greasy hair. Then, cautious, Dean asked, "D'you remember what happened?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I passed out. Right after I finished the Trial."

Dean nodded. Sam went on.

"I woke up...I guess a few minutes later. Didn't think to look at a clock or anything. I was  _super_ out of it, and you were freaking out. You teleported me outta my clothes and put me in the shower for a couple minutes to get the hellhound blood off." It was fuzzy, but Sam remembered kicking up as much of a fuss as he'd been able to at the time because he thought Dean wanted to have sex and he wasn't in the mood. "Then...there was a hospital, right?" He squinted at Dean. "I know I needed to go. That was, easy, the most pain I've ever been in my whole life, including my leg, and I lost consciousness." He swallowed. "But they probably had security footage of us dropping off - "

"I didn't go to the one we dumped Wannabe Presley at," Dean interrupted. "I took you to an ER in the next town. Drove like a bat outta hell to get there, too. Literally. Good thing there weren't any cops around; if one'd tried to pull me over right then, probably would've killed him." Dean's voice was light. His face wasn't. "You were doing better by then. You remember what the doctor said?"

"That it sounded like a migraine." That doctor'd been harried and tired, and not at all impressed by the attitude Dean was sporting. "Or a cluster headache. And that it also looked like I had the flu, which makes sense, because I never got a shot."

"We had better things to do," Dean said dismissively. "But..." He eyed Sam, looking guilty. "I'll make sure you get one next year. Even if this ain't the flu."

"Well, you demanded half a dozen tests - none of which we paid for, I'd guess - and I don't remember them finding anything wrong with me besides that," Sam pointed out. There was a tickle high in his chest, right below his throat.

"Told me your giant nerd brain looked funny on the MRI."

"They also told you that was probably machine error. I was there, Dean." Sam swallowed, painful and thick. "I was there when you told 'em we were brothers, too." He made an attempt at a playful smirk. "Which, if that's a kink of yours, I mean, good for you, but no thanks."

Dean snorted. "I said that so they'd let me stay with you. Get your mind outta the gutter." He reached behind Sam to pile up the pillows, all firm and rounded. Sam let him nudge him into leaning back against them once he was done. "What happened after they gave you a clean bill of health, pretty much?"

"Well, we left, and - " The tickle in Sam's chest became an itch, and he coughed to scratch it. All that really did was make it worse. And make him very, very aware of all the heavy mucus that he seemed to be full of right now. Before he knew it, Sam was in the middle of a full-blown coughing fit, hacking wetly.

Dean's weight disappeared from the bed. He returned a second later with a glass of water, which Sam gratefully chugged.

"Thanks," he rasped after taking a second to catch his breath.

"Don't mention it." Dean sat down again as Sam returned to leaning against the pillows. Coughing so much had left him tired and lightheaded. "We left, yeah. I stuck you in the back seat and you conked out right away."

"You kept waking me up." Sam's voice was still rough.

"Can you blame me? I only did it for the first hour, anyway." Dean stared at nothing, eyes aimed in the direction of the shell lamp. "You slept for thirteen hours after that. Didn't wake up when I carried you in here, or when I took your pants and shoes off to put you in bed. Would've been worried if you hadn't kept tryin' to cuddle with me in your sleep." Dean looked wryly at Sam. "Also, I know I carry you a lot, but you're freakin'  _heavy_ , man."

"Thirteen hours?" Sam repeated, shocked. "I'm. So sorry, Dean...did you try and wake me up?"

"Nah." Dean shook his head. "You were sleeping in the car all last week, pretty much, and then you were up the whole night doing the Trial and saving Blue's bacon, and they said you were sick at the hospital, so I figured you needed it." He made a show of examining Sam's face and feeling his forehead. "Looks like you could use a couple more hours, actually."

"Pretty sure I've had enough." Thirteen hours. Sam hadn't slept that long since he'd been battling an infection in his leg.

Dean picked up on his embarrassment, of course. "Look, you really don't have to feel bad, okay? I was fine. And it ain't surprising at all, if you think about how much you had going on. The First Trial was a little rough on me, too." He paused, then admitted, "Not this rough. But you were probably already getting sick, so."

"I'm not going back to sleep," Sam stated, shaking his head until he got dizzy and had to close his eyes. Of course he was still tired. But that was nothing new for him, and it wasn't even unique to hunters. It was just part of being a person.

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed. "Probably gotta get some food and fluids in you, anyway." Sam opened his eyes again to see Dean staring intently at him. "But you  _are_ gonna rest."

"All right." Sam shrugged, then winced. He wasn't sure which pains were flu aches and which were pulled muscles from sleeping folded up in the back seat of the car. "I'll take a day or two off. If you wanna grab me my laptop, I could go ahead and start looking at - "

"No," Dean interrupted firmly. His expression said not only had he been expecting this fight, but he'd prepared for it. Sam felt his head move a little in confusion. "I mean, yeah, not a bad idea for you to get some work done while we're here, but not today. You oughta just take it easy today. And I'm not talking about staying here for one or two days. Unless something major happens, we're planted 'til you're all better. No fever, no coughing, no nothing. And I don't care how long it takes."

Sucking quietly at the inside of one cheek, Sam regarded Dean, saw the stony resolution in the look on his face. "Okay. I agree. But - " He turned his palms up on the pale-blue duvet, exasperated. "Can we afford that much of a break? We've started the Trials. How long 'til the other demons figure it out and start coming after us for real? We need to keep moving. We need to get going on the Second Trial, and even if we can't, we should at least be hunting." He coughed, but only let himself do it once. "I can do it, if I need to. It's just the flu. I've been sick before."

"Yeah, but that's just it: you don't need to." Dean's hand landed on one of Sam's, and squeezed. "We got plenty of time and we're safe here. What's most important right now is you building yourself back up for whatever comes next, whether that's the Second Trial or another hunt. So you don't wind up  _dying_." There was something harsh in Dean's voice on that last word. "You gotta remember the doctor telling you to just take a load off."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. He was frustrated, in the pettiest, most useless way, because he knew Dean was right and he'd already given in.

"Look, be pissed at me if you gotta," Dean went on. "Do it for me if you don't think you need the shore leave, 'cause I fought hellhounds and then I thought I was watching you have an aneurysm, and I know I'm a big, bad demon Knight, but I could still use a few days where I don't gotta do anything but take care of you and all your basic human crap."

The harshness was back in his voice, and he held Sam's hand tight the entire time he was talking, like he was worried he'd disappear into the bed if he didn't hang onto him. Sam watched him, almost as shocked as he'd been when he told him he'd slept for thirteen hours.

"Look, Sammy." Dean's voice leveled out and his hand loosened. "I don't have a whole lotta feelings, and my stomach's not even running, but..." His boots  _clunk_ ed loud on the floor as he kicked them off, then he climbed over Sam, letting go of his hand and flopping onto the mattress with a sigh. Sam bounced and held in a cough. "Swear to god you're gonna give me an ulcer, kid."

Sam gingerly rolled onto his side to face Dean, hand to hand, knee to knee, brow to brow, twins in the womb of the big, fluffy bed. Green eyes, highlighted gold in one thin bar each by the lamp at Sam's back, filled his whole vision.

"You convinced me," he assured Dean. "It'll be like a vacation. I'll rest up, and you can take a break from saving my ass every five minutes." A moment later, he added, "And watching me have aneurysms."

_"Ooh."_  Dean's moan was almost sexual. "Yes, please." His eyelids dropped, lashes the color of old honey catching the lamplight now, and he touched Sam's hair. He sure seemed to like it a lot, for having destroyed it. His fingers traveled over the swell of Sam's skull, down into the aching, pulsing hollow just below his temple, up onto the ridge of his eye socket, the point of his cheekbone, the slice of his nose. Just that gentle touch was enough to have Sam's eyes watering and his sinuses stirring. He blinked rapidly as Dean moved down to his mole and murmured, "Speaking of that aneurysm." A pause. "What was it like?"

"Well, it fucking  _hurt_." Sam didn't really want to think about it, but he did anyway. Memories bubbled up like mud churned by the treads of a tank, just as dirty and unpleasant. Bobby and Vaughn. An angel. Dean hurting him.

Sam swallowed his sneeze and decided not to tell Dean. They'd probably just been hallucinations. Dean would never hurt him. And Bobby and Vaughn...well.

"Yeah, I got that. What with all the screaming." Dean traced the shape of Sam's mouth. "That all, though? Just the hurt?"

"Why?"

"Just felt something weird coming off you during it."

Sam frowned under Dean's fingers. "What?"

"Well..." Dean started, then sighed through his nose. "Never mind. It was probably nothing." He cupped Sam's jaw, his calluses catching on his stubble. "Anyway. Now's probably a bad time to talk about you  _not_ doing the Second Trial, right?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and smirked, taking it as a joke. Dean was just smiling back when the sneeze he'd thought he'd gotten rid of returned with a vengeance. There was no holding it back this time; he accidentally splattered Dean with what felt like about a cup of snot and spit. Dean gasped with horror, wordless, and then rolled over and scrambled off the bed so fast the mattress bucked in the frame.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting," he mumbled as he bolted into the bathroom.

"You're the one who wanted to deal with all my 'basic human crap.'" Sam sniffed and wiped gingerly at the wet mess under his nose. "Could you grab me a tissue?"

* * *

Once they were both clean of Sam's mucus (a worrying shade of green), Dean helped him out of bed and down the stairs. Upstairs was the bedroom and bathroom, and downstairs was a small kitchen, living room, and what looked like a mudroom or something. The living room had a huge picture window. Dean wrapped Sam up in a heavy blanket and sat him in a squashy armchair in front of it, opening the shutters so he could see the rain and the clouds and the wet beach sloping down to the gray ocean.

"You gonna cook for me?" Sam asked Dean throatily as he headed into the kitchen.

"Yep." Dean grinned at him. "I make a mean chicken noodle soup." His voice got a little more careful. "It's my dad's recipe. It'll knock your socks off, guaranteed."

"Soup sounds good." Sam glanced around. More shells, nets, glass, driftwood. There was a tiny end table with a big, solid telephone on it, old-fashioned and cream-colored, exactly like the one he'd used to have at his cabin. That reminded him of something. He did some quick calculations, then asked Dean, "Hey. Is it Monday?"

"Yep." Dean was rooting around in the fridge, laying packages of chicken and bags of vegetables out on the counter. "Why?"

"I gotta call Ellen. Or Garth, or somebody." Sam closed his eyes and pulled down into the blanket. "Could you get me my phone?"

"I guess." Dean heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Just so you know, though, I wouldn't even let you do this if you weren't calling your mom."

He brought Sam his cell phone, then went back to the kitchen. Sam decided to call Ellen. She was most likely to talk to everyone else.

"Harvelle," Ellen stated coldly when she picked up. Sam was surprised until he remembered he had a new phone; she didn't know who he was.

"Uh, hey, Ellen." Sam coughed. "It's Sam. Calling. Y'know, like I said I would."

"Well," Ellen said approvingly, "color me shocked." Sam winced, and Ellen paused. "But, god, Sam, you sound awful."

"Yeah, I've got the flu." Sam glanced towards Dean. "Dean's making me...chicken noodle soup."

There was a silence Sam couldn't help hearing as  _So he's still around, is he?_  Then Ellen flatly stated, "He cooks."

"He's really good at it, actually." Sam read a self-satisfied smirk in the set of Dean's shoulders.

"Good for him." Sam heard Ellen lick her lips. "I know he's a demon and all, but I've gotta say, I feel bad for him. You sick, him taking care of you all on his lonesome. No backup."

"I'm behaving!" Sam protested. "We barely fought about us staying here until I'm better. D'you wanna talk to him? About how good I'm being?"

"Not if he's busy with your soup," Ellen replied innocently. Voice more serious, she asked Sam, "You doin' okay, though? For real?"

"Of course. I'm just sick. It's not the first time."

"Heard Charlie called you."

"Yeah, it was great to hear from her." The microwave beeped, and Dean appeared at Sam's elbow with a steaming mug. Sam took it with a mumbled thanks, then frowned down at the bag floating in the pale amber water. He took the phone away from his mouth. "Do we not have coffee?"

"This is better for you right now. I put honey and lemon juice in it." Dean raised his brows and hooded his eyes. "Don't try to tell me you ain't a tea guy. Salads, meditation...you're into all that shit."

Sam rolled his eyes and sipped the tea. It didn't taste like anything, but he  _was_ sick. He returned to the conversation with Ellen.

"Sorry," he said. "Anyway, I had to ditch my old phone. This is my new number."

"Good to know." Ellen took it in stride. "So how're your, ah, Trials going? Or are you guys still just hunting, building up to it?"

"No. I started." Excitement flooded Sam in a prickly rush. He couldn't believe he hadn't told her right away. "I finished the first one. I killed a hellhound. We killed a  _lot_ of hellhounds and saved a guy, I bathed in their blood, Dean gave me the incantation. My arm glowed." Better not to mention the pain, or the headache he'd gotten after.

"Wow!" Ellen sounded impressed. "That is...you're really doing it." There was a long pause. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, had thickened slightly. "You're gonna change the world. You're gonna make things better."

"I said I would," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, you were always pretty good about keepin' your word when it came to stuff like that. Not so much calling." Sam snorted which, unfortunately, made an ungodly amount of snot pop out of his nose. Dean brought a box of tissues over to him, mouthing  _Gross_  and scowling. He also affectionately touched the back of Sam's neck before returning to the kitchen. "So Dean's helping you? He's looking out for you?"

"He dragged me to an ER and bullied 'em into running ten thousand dollars' worth of tests on me just so they could tell us I need fluids and bedrest." Sam briefly closed his aching eyes. "You tell me."

Ellen chuckled. "You're closing the Gates of Hell and he's got you following doctor's orders. Better hope you don't use up the world supply of miracles between you two."

"How're you guys?" Sam changed the subject.

"Welp, Ash is rebuilding his setup," Ellen began. "We're looking for a place of our own. Meantime, I'm tending bar. Place is nice. Homey. Reminds me of..." She choked up, trailed off. Sam felt a stab of guilt and murmured his sympathies. "Well. You know. Owner's on the up and up, lots of old friends stopping by. I might start selling your books here, but - "

"Yeah. Don't want it getting burned down, too," Sam finished. "No. Don't put yourselves at risk. Don't even mention you've been talking to me." He sipped from the tea again. "How 'bout Jo?"

Ellen heaved a sigh so deep it sounded like she'd dragged it up out of her hipbones. "Jo...is working a restless spirit case in Omaha."

"Oh." Sam winced. "No."

"Yeah."

"Anything I can do to help?" Sam asked, acutely aware of his fever and aches.

"Doubt it." Ellen sighed again. "Garth's with her, so. Not like she's alone, at least."

Sam bit back another "Oh, no." Garth was a good...well, not a good hunter, exactly. But he hadn't died or lost any limbs yet, and he did have a lot of experience, so Jo was better off with him than alone.

"He's done comin' around here when they get back, though." Ellen's voice was steely. "And  _she's_ grounded. Gonna nip this thing in the bud before it gets off the ground."

Sam coughed. He didn't feel well enough to argue about this, and once again, he wasn't there, wasn't involved. As Dean kept reminding him, though, this was still his family. He found himself asking, "You really think  _Garth_  talked  _Jo_  into working a case?"

"I think she couldn't've done it without him," Ellen replied. Sam disagreed, but didn't say so.

"Ellen, she's twenty-three."

"That mean she ain't my daughter anymore?" Ellen asked bluntly. She continued before Sam could answer. "Sam Winchester, I'm not stopping you from running with a demon or hunting or closing the Gates of Hell. And Dean sounds like a perfect gentleman and shutting down Hell's the best thing anybody's ever done for any of us, but  _don't_  tell me how to mother Jo."

"Okay." Sam could feel Dean, chopping veggies in the kitchen, staring at him, picking up on his emotions. He heard Ellen sigh yet again.

"I'm sorry, Sam. It's just been real tough, between you and her. At least Ash barely leaves his room."

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry, too."

"I appreciate you calling," Ellen told Sam seriously. "I hope you feel better soon. And I'm proud of you, doing what you're doing. So proud. We all are. And you can bet your dad would be, too."

"Thanks, Ellen," Sam said quietly. "I'll...talk to you again soon. Say hi to Ash for me, and good luck with Jo."

"Yeah, I'm gonna need it." Ellen paused. "Tell Dean thanks from me. For actually keeping your stubborn ass in one place and making you get over whatever's wrong with you."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. 'Bye, Ellen." He hung up after she'd said goodbye, then sank deep into the chair and the blanket, dropping his phone in his lap.

"Drama?" Dean called.

"Jo's hunting," Sam responded. "With Garth. Ellen hates it, I don't blame her, but Jo's a grown woman, so...the usual."

"Garth's the weird little dude with the big nose, right?"

"Yep. Got a crush on Jo, too, apparently." Sam massaged his forehead and grimaced. "Whiiiich I can't see ending well for him, especially now he's on Ellen's bad side."

"Wow." Dean cleared his throat. "I am  _so_  glad I'm not human."

"Ellen said she was proud of me, though." Sam paused. "And that my dad would've been, too."

"I know I am." Dean was smiling when Sam looked at him. "That's why I'm making you this kickass chicken noodle soup."

"She's also real happy you're taking care of me."

"'Bout time somebody appreciated my talents."

The soup took forever. Sam dozed off again while it was simmering, even though he'd said he wouldn't. It was definitely worth the wait when Dean woke him up and handed him a bowl, hot and rich and salty, swimming with carrots and celery. It also cleared Sam's sinuses right out, because "kickass" apparently meant "full of every spice the local grocery store carries."

"Good?" Dean asked, taking Sam's empty bowl. He hadn't even thought he was hungry, but he'd eaten the whole thing. Sam, gasping and blowing his nose for the fifty billionth time, nodded. "Awesome. I'm gonna cook for you the whole time we're here. I'm going all-out." He made Sam finish his tea, then said, "Okay, let's take a bath. I can still smell the hellhound on you."

Dean literally meant "let's." The upstairs bathroom was mostly taken up by a clawfoot tub with a high back, big enough for both of them. Dean helped Sam out of the tee and boxers he'd yanked onto him before rushing him to the hospital as water thundered into the bathtub. Rain pattered on the roof and the windows were steamed pale and cloudy.

It felt like Sam's cabin. It felt like home.

"You sure I didn't die?" he mumbled to Dean. "Is this Heaven?"

Dean looked at him, then felt his forehead. "I'm gonna have you take a couple aspirin, okay?" he said. "And...you'd be super sick in your Heaven? Seriously?"

"Oh. Right."

After the aspirin, in bathwater hot enough to banish Sam's fever chills, Dean sat behind him and washed every inch. He wiped away all the lingering smears of black blood, shampooed his hair, even shaved the stubble that'd covered Sam's jaw and throat since Saturday morning.

Dean was especially thorough when he got down between Sam's legs. He fondled his dick, rolled his balls under his thumb. Sam was already hardening when Dean went to wash his hole and a couple fingers popped in, going straight for the fever-sensitive swell of his prostate.

Sam gasped, back arching. Dean's full length was resting hard and heavy against his spine.

"Don't want it?" Dean's voice was a low rumble, but still gentle.

"I - right now? You sure?" Sam's hips were trembling with the effort of not grinding down onto the pads of Dean's fingers. He was feeling better, with the soup and the bath and especially the aspirin, but... "I'm gross. I'm super gross."

"Mm, yeah, I know. You're disgusting." Dean kissed the curve of Sam's ear at the same moment Sam happened to sniff a lot of snot deeper into his nose. "Only your upper half, though. Your lower half's fine. And it's all I'm interested in."

Sam was reluctant right up until Dean flicked his fingers. "Okay, fine. If you really wanna."

Dean finished cleaning him up, then helped him out of the tub. Once they were dry, both of them hard enough to cut diamonds, Sam laid down on the bed, pelvis on the foot. Dean knelt there and grabbed his legs, spreading them wide. He grunted approvingly.

"Lovin' this tight little runner's ass you got goin' on back here," he growled. "And these  _thighs_." He squeezed a double handful of hard muscle and Sam sucked in a breath.

"Gotta give you something nice to look at, don't I?" Sam asked breathlessly. "Glad you finally noticed."

"Ooh, believe me, I noticed." Dean's breath was cool on Sam's bath-hot cock. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"Uh...suck my dick?" Sam didn't mean for it to come out as a question. Thankfully, Dean took it as an order. Sam gasped as he tongued his slit, dredging up precome he hadn't even known he'd been leaking and spreading it over his head. When Dean went to take him into his mouth, Sam knew he was going to come in about ten seconds doing this, and even though he was sick, he didn't want to. "W-wait. Rim me."

Dean didn't question it, diving down to the pucker of Sam's entrance. He seemed to be aware of how hypersensitive Sam was, because he was gentler with his tongue and his lips than he normally would've been. Sam's muscles melted almost instantly at the familiar touch of Dean's full mouth, and he worked him even looser, leaning into him with his whole face. His nose nudged Sam's sac with the rhythm of his jaw movements, and his tongue fluttered over Sam's inner walls. Sam squeezed the heavy comforter under him with both hands to keep from jerking himself off. His eyes closed as he panted and shuddered, legs folding in automatically around Dean's head. His hair was bristly-soft against the backs of Sam's thighs.

Sam's hips jerked when he felt something against his prostate. It wasn't a finger, and it definitely wasn't Dean's tongue, which meant it had to be a psychic touch. There was something unbelievably hot about that.

"Fuck me," Sam gasped. He was pretty sure he was loose enough by now. Then he hastily tacked on, "If you wanna."

Dean snorted after pulling back and standing up. Sam let his legs fall down around his waist. "This is about you, dumbass. You're the one who's sick."

"Then I want you to fuck me." Sam sniffed wetly without meaning to. "And come inside."

"I can do that." Dean entered Sam easily, grabbing his legs and moving them up to his own shoulders. "Then you gotta blow your nose."

Dean made love to Sam, slow, each stroke smooth and steady. He built up an orgasm for him, prostate only, then pushed him over the edge. Sam moaned and shook, head driving back into the mattress, pleasure waterfalling through him. When it was over, he was exhausted and bone-deep satisfied, and Dean had spilled his seed inside him.

"I needed that," Sam rasped. The moaning hadn't done his sore throat any favors. "You were right."

"Usually am."

Sam cleaned himself up with the washcloth Dean brought him, pulled on the tee and sweats he dug out of his backpack, and then fell into bed, warm and fulfilled and heavy. Dean crawled in behind him, wearing boxers and a flannel Sam knew was his. He groaned with pleasure, half-asleep, when Dean draped an arm over him and pulled him back against his chest.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled. "You're a really good boyfriend, Dandelion. I really love you."

"Well, you ain't that complicated," Dean replied softly. "Food, sex, and sleep."

"I'm a  _human_." Sam yawned. "Listen, we...we can stay here 'til my fever breaks, but then we gotta go. Another hunt. Second Trial." He burrowed into his pillow. "We gotta get moving."


	14. Chapter 14

_You're going to run into a lot of psychics over the course of your career, chances are. At a generous estimate, over half the population has latent psychic abilities, although most people's are so weak they never even notice. Psychics are tricky. The aren't technically monsters, but if they can't control their powers or are using them to hurt people, you'll need to take care of them. We'll go deeper into that later on._

_Psychic powers range from the common, like sensitivity to ghosts and telekinesis, to the extremely rare, like manifestation (altering reality itself) and clairvoyance (seeing the future)._

_I have a full section on clairvoyance starting on page 63, but I want to emphasize something here: most clairvoyants have basically no control over their visions, and they never see the big picture. All they get is brief flashes of a_ possible _future, the future as it's going to happen if nothing changes from that second on. It's a fact that nothing is concretely predetermined, even if we do have a pretty good idea some sort of God exists out there._

_This means you can change the future a clairvoyant sees. It also means you don't know what kind of effect doing that will have. Time isn't a straight line, it's more like a tree. And there are a lot of branches you don't want to end up on._

_-_ Psychics,  _Sam Winchester_

* * *

The beach house had a shower. It was in the mudroom area Sam'd spotted on the first day, right by the door, probably so you could wash off sand and salt before coming into the house. It was kind of industrial-looking, but Sam didn't mind. Baths were nice. There was something about a shower they just couldn't replicate, though.

It was the morning of their third day here, as Sam stepped naked under the scalding-hot stream, and he was feeling worlds better. Dean's home cooking, more sleep than he'd probably needed, and at least one orgasm a day had really made a difference. His sinuses were clear and his fever had broken, and when he'd woken right before sunrise, he'd actually felt well-rested.

He'd been able to get some work done, finally, using his laptop for something besides catching Dean up on movies he'd never seen while Sam himself dozed, or just enjoyed his company. He'd cleaned out his inbox, sorting the real messages from the hate mail, and done some much-needed maintenance on his website. He'd found the e-mails from Ash and Blue, and felt guilty, but thankfully, there didn't seem to be anybody else who urgently needed to get into contact with him.

Sam had even taken a look at a few news outlets out West and earmarked a handful of possible cases. He still wasn't sure if he wanted to go straight ahead into the Second Trial or do another hunt or two first. Maybe it'd be better to ease back into things, after how tough the First Trial and what came after it had been. Give Dean a break from worrying he was going to die.

"You got room for one more in there?"

Speak of the devil. Literally. As soon as Sam called "Yeah," Dean pulled aside the curtain (heavy canvas, striped blue and white) and stepped into the roomy cubicle. Of course he was already naked. He turned on the other of the two heads and smiled at Sam through the steam.

"Well,  _you_ look about a million times better," he announced, and Sam chuckled.

"I feel about a million times better," he agreed. "Might even go for a run later." He hadn't been able to recently. First he'd been trapped in the car, driving from Oregon to Texas, then he'd been busy with the Trial, and then he'd been sick and it'd been raining. It'd cleared up yesterday, though. He was looking forward to getting back in the swing of things.

"Just so long as you don't overdo it," Dean warned.

"Don't worry." Sam moved in closer to him in order to grab his shampoo off the floor, intentionally brushing up against him. "I'll be fine."

Dean put a hand on Sam's waist. Straightening up, Sam leaned in until their mouths met, tasting sulfur and tap water on his lips. The hot spray of the shower pounded against both their backs.

When they broke, Dean's voice had dropped and roughened. "After the past couple days, haven't you had enough of me?"

"Never." Sam kissed him again. His dick, already beginning to swell, brushed against the muscle of Dean's thigh.

"Y'know, I've  _never_  had as much shower sex with anybody as I've had with you," Dean commented. "Used to kinda hate it when I was human. Thought it was too complicated."

"Oh, are we gonna have shower sex?" Sam stepped back, half-hard, grinning as Dean's hand slipped off him. "You sure?"

He popped the cap on his shampoo bottle, but it snapped closed immediately. Then it slipped out of his hand and settled back on the floor, out of the way. Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, who shrugged, arms folded across his chest.

"What's the point in washing your hair before you go for a run?" he asked reasonably. "Or anything. Not even sure why you're showering." Another bottle, slimmer, floated into Sam's hand. "There you go. Try that one instead."

Sam glanced down to see their lube, then smirked, opening it and pouring some out into his hand. Dean's eyes were locked on him, bright and eager, as he worked himself out to his full length and slicked it up. They were less than a foot apart under the water.

"'M really glad you're feeling so good." It was just a husky rumble from Dean, who was fully erect by the time Sam finished.

"Lemme show you..." He put the lube down, stepped forward, crowded Dean backwards. Dean was grinning. "...how good I'm feeling."

"Ooh, I love it when you take charge," Dean purred. Then Sam grabbed him by his thighs, picking him up and shoving his back against the wall, and Dean made a happy, excited little hiccuping noise. It was totally out of place, but Sam managed to keep from commenting on it.

Honestly, he was just pleased he could do this. Dean was at least one-sixty, and not only had he picked him up, it hadn't even been that hard. Sam knew he'd put on some serious muscle since leaving his cabin. This was proof.

"I'm ready and waitin' for ya." Dean fluttered his long eyelashes seductively inches from Sam's face, and draped his arms over Sam's shoulders. "Come right on in."

One of the perks of Dean being a demon possessing a human vessel was that he had total control over his body. There was no need for anything but minimal prep; when Sam prodded Dean's entrance with his slick head, he was already loose and eager, fluttering in anticipation.

Sam slipped into him with a grunt. Dean gasped and hooked his knees over Sam's hips, squeezing his ass with his calves. He was familiar to Sam, after all the times he'd been inside him, and he knew how to angle his hips to hit Dean's prostate from the front. He squeezed Dean's thighs, probably pressing fingerprint bruises into the pale skin, and the nails of one of Dean's hands dug into Sam's back. The other hand gripped his head, his shortened hair, so hard his scalp stung.

Sam felt powerful, strong. He'd been training and hunting for eight months, he'd just come out of an illness. He'd started the Trials of God. He would've been afraid to fuck anybody human into this tiled wall as hard as he could, afraid of ripping or crushing or otherwise hurting. He knew Dean could take it, though. So Sam aimed to wear himself out in him. It was almost as good as running.

They got the rough, raw sex Sam suspected they'd both been craving for a while now, moaning and grunting together. A few minutes in, Sam heard Dean's eyes change, and then come exploded between their chests and stomachs a second later.

As easy as Dean had been to pick up at first, Sam's arms and back were starting to get tired, especially with all the thrusting. Once Dean'd come, he moved to put him down, elbows creaking. He figured he'd finish himself off. Dean clung to him with his arms and legs both, though.

"Oh, no you don't," he growled. "I know you're close. You throw me around like this and put me in my place, you're sure as shit gonna come in my ass, bookworm boy."

"Your dirty talk's been better," Sam panted, adjusting his grip on Dean's thighs.

"Shut up."

Sam started moving again, immediately getting back the momentum he'd lost when Dean came. Dean, for his part, clenched where his orgasm had loosened him. He was tight around Sam, hot, ridged with rings of muscle. It wasn't long before he was on the edge and then, very quickly, tipping over.

Sam was barely into his orgasm when the pain hit.

It was like someone had hit him with a machete dipped in nitrogen, cleaving his skull down the center, and Sam instinctively reeled back. Of course that didn't do any good. He could tell, by the overwhelming, unparalleled pain and the way his reality seemed to be cracking into pieces, that this headache was the same as the one he'd gotten right after finishing the First Trial.

Sam dropped Dean. He normally would've felt awful about that, but at the moment, he barely even noticed. His cock slipped out of him, still dripping with come but instantly flaccid because of the agony. Clutching his head, wet hair wound so tight around his fingers it was cutting off the circulation, Sam staggered backwards through two sprays of water until his hunched back hit tile. He flinched at the heat, extremely sensitive to temperature all of a sudden.

As soon as he was up against the wall, Sam slid down and folded in on himself, head between his knees, heels against his ass. Rocking, he screamed. Dean was there, touching him, talking to him, but Sam cringed away from his fingertips and couldn't understand his words. Even Dean's face, when Sam dared to open his eyes, looked too wrong for him to do more than glance at it.

The only good thing was that he didn't have to deal with it all for long, because everything fell away after a couple of endless seconds.

It was like last time, when an entirely new world came into view for Sam: strange, and shivery around the edges. Not quite as strange, though, or as shivery.

It looked like the entryway to a normal house. A dark wooden door with a glazed window set into the top. A coatrack overflowing with brightly-colored rain slickers and jackets, boots and a large suitcase sitting in a plastic tray underneath. A large, decorative analogue clock on the wall, ticking loudly. It showed 6:18, and going off the light, Sam assumed that was p.m.

A shadow appeared in the window, and someone knocked on the door.

A woman moved into view to answer it, maybe in her mid-forties, her frizzy blonde hair graying. As soon as she'd opened the door to two large men, they stepped inside. Forced to stumble back, she didn't even get the chance to say anything until they were already over the threshold.

"Excuse me, what - what're you doin'?" she demanded in a Southern accent. For the moment at least, she sounded more confused than angry. "Who are you?"

They didn't answer, just crowded her further back into the house. She balled her hands into fists, attempted to stand her ground.

"Get out," she ordered. When they stayed where they were, both of them actually smirking at her, she raised her voice. "Get out of my house, or I'm callin' the police!"

Sam couldn't help the slow curdling deep in his gut. The growing feeling something was very, very wrong.

A man about the same age as the woman emerged from a nearby hallway, probably drawn by her shouting. His rusty beard, thick arms, and surly  _Hell's goin' on here?_  expression were all weirdly familiar to Sam, but he didn't know who he was.

The man, immediately mad, opened his mouth, probably to demand an explanation. Sam saw the words die on his tongue, though, as both intruders looked at him, and their eyes shifted to black with the same noise Dean's made.

The man didn't hesitate. Even as the woman was gasping, shocked and choked, he lunged for the suitcase under the coats. Sam recognized the sharpness of his reflexes, the readiness of his body: a hunter. But he never made it to what must have been his arsenal.

One of the demons flung a hand out and the hunter stopped dead. As it cocked its stolen head, the demon rotated its wrist, and the hunter straightened up. Struggling to breathe, he rose with the demon's hand, until the toes of his boots were barely brushing the floor. There was naked terror in his eyes.

"Ed?!" The woman was screaming now, pressed flat against the nearest wall. "What's happening? What are they?!"

Of course he wasn't able to answer. The demon's hand snapped into a fist, there was a horrifyingly-wet crunching noise from inside Ed's chest, and his eyes trembled in their sockets as blood dripped from his mouth and nose. Sam and the woman both watched him die.

She sobbed, just once, dry. The demons turned their attention to her, the one carelessly throwing Ed's body aside. They moved towards her, and she automatically backed up, face blank in the "this-can't-possibly-be-happening" way Sam had seen a hundred times before on civilians. She'd started hyperventilating.

Sam followed her, as she backed down the hallway, past the relics of a safe, happy life that'd just been ripped to twitching pieces in front of her. A bookcase, an end table, a bunch of marker-and-crayon children's drawings taped haphazardly to the wall. It wasn't Sam's decision to keep watching her. His vision tracked her without any action from him.

"Should've known better than to shack up with a hunter," said the other demon, the one who hadn't killed Ed, pleasantly.

The vantage point, suddenly and nauseatingly, switched to a large picture window, just in time to see blood spray across it as the woman shrieked. The sound was raw and primal, ending in a gurgle; the blood was a shockingly dark, rich red. It obscured the trees outside, the darkening sky, the street sign that'd barely been visible to begin with. Sam could still read it:  _A DEROUEN RD._

Then it was over. He was back in his body, back in the shower, numb. When his hands dropped from his head, they didn't even feel like they were part of him.

It took Sam way too long to notice the water had been turned off, and that Dean was right next to him, rubbing his back and arms like he was trying to bring him back from the edge of hypothermia. Dean actually might've realized that what'd been happening was over before Sam realized he was there.

"Okay, c'mon," Dean said in the softest, most soothing voice Sam thought he'd ever heard, petting Sam's wet-matted hair. Honestly, coming from Dean, that tone was just weird. "Let's get you in bed."

He guided Sam up onto his feet and out of the shower like he thought it was his first time walking. Sam might've been annoyed by that, but he wasn't confident his legs had fully reconnected to his brain yet. His brain itself wasn't even connected to all its separate sections. He remembered what he'd seen, but it didn't make any sense to him, just a jumble of colors and shapes and sounds. Maybe it did have meaning and Sam was just so relieved not to be in mind-breaking, blinding pain anymore it didn't matter to him.

It wasn't until Dean had wrapped him in a towel, draping it a little awkwardly over Sam's broad shoulders, that Sam got it. It slotted into place, along with an overpowering and white-hot sense of urgency. He was moving before he wanted to, blowing past Dean and out of the mudroom, towel fluttering forgotten off him.

Sam's goal was his laptop, still sitting on the little table in the kitchen from where he'd been doing research before breakfast. That he never reached it reminded him viscerally of the hunter. Ed. Dean appeared in front of him, too quick for it to have been anything but teleportation, and stopped him dead with hands on his upper arms. The pain of impact crushed through Sam's biceps, and he knew he'd bruise. That was definitely more his fault than Dean's, though.

"Hey. No." The softness was gone from Dean's voice, leaving behind steel. "You gotta sit down. You might pass out again."

"No, I'm not gonna pass out, I just - " Sam struggled against Dean's hands. He might as well have been trying to snap out of a pair of police-grade handcuffs. "I gotta - " He leaned around Dean, eyes finding his laptop. "Dean, I  _have_ to look something up."

"What?" Dean snapped.

Sam paused. His gaze flicked from the laptop to Dean; his eyes were hard, and Sam, absurdly, thought of lime Lifesavers, even though Dean's eyes were a few shades too dark for the comparison to be accurate. Sam swallowed, finally feeling comfortable in his own skin again. "You're gonna think I'm crazy."

Dean gave him the "hunter look." The "my-whole-life-is-crazy" look. The "nothing-you-can-say'll-surprise-me" look. Except dialed way up, because they were both aware Sam should know better. "Try me, Sammy."

"I think...I think I might've seen the future," Sam said hesitantly, then added, "I  _hope_."

He waited for Dean's reaction. The head-shake, the snort, the patient (or not so patient, probably) explanation that psychic powers of that caliber didn't just appear out of the blue at age twenty-five. None of that happened, though. And studying Dean's face, Sam couldn't help noticing he didn't look all that surprised. More like something he'd been really hoping against had just been confirmed.

"What?"

"I don't know, man, I might've..." Dean let go of Sam's arms, slowly and carefully, keeping his hands near Sam's biceps for a couple seconds. Once he was apparently satisfied Sam wasn't about to bolt again, Dean dropped his hands. "...felt some psychic energy comin' off you during your little episode just now." He shrugged, embarrassed. "Or something."

Sam tilted his head. Water dripped off his hair and pattered loud on the hardwood floor during an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on and on.

"Seriously?" Sam broke it finally, letting all his disbelief come through in his tone.

"Like I said, I don't know!" Dean threw his hands up. "Not for sure. I'm not super familiar with it or anything, haven't been around a ton of psychics since I got outta Hell."

"Did you feel it during...when I got the headache right after the First Trial?" Sam desperately wanted to know.

"Maybe," Dean replied, exasperated. "Look, I seriously don't know."

They spent a few seconds just staring at each other again, Dean defensive and concerned and Sam just honestly not sure what to say. Dean was the one who spoke first this time.

"How 'bout you just tell me what you saw and we go from there?" he suggested.

"All right." Sam took a deep breath. He was starting to get cold, adrenaline wearing off. "So, there was a hunter - "

"How d'you know it was a hunter?" Dean interrupted.

Sam shook his head, shrugging. "He seemed to recognize the demons, and they said - "

"Demons?" Dean interrupted again, his voice sharp, but saw something in Sam's face that made him back down right away. "Sorry. I'll stop. Keep going."

"Yeah, there were demons," Sam continued, just a little testily. "They came to...this hunter's house, or the place where he was staying, and they forced their way in. They killed him, and the woman who lived there, and..." Sam covered his face with both hands. "There had to be kids in the house, Dean. Little kids. And I didn't see them die, but no way would they've left them alive."

Dean's head moved, the tiniest shake of agreement. Then he surmised, "That's why you're hoping you saw the future. So you can stop it."

"It felt way too real to just be." Sam's jaw worked helplessly. "A hallucination. And if you got that kind of energy off me, what else could it be?"

Dean didn't actually answer him, just asked "This hunter. You recognize him?"

"Yeah, actually. He looked  _super_ familiar, but I just didn't...know..." Sam trailed off, remembering the hunter as suddenly as he'd understood the vision. He had no idea how he'd forgotten him in the first place. After all, the last time he'd seen him, he'd been helping to carry the chair Dean was chained to into Sam's cabin.

"Shit," Sam breathed.

"What?"

"It's Kubrik. The hunter? He was Kubrik." Ed Kubrik, apparently. Sam hadn't known his first name before now.

Sam could tell by Dean's reaction, especially the way his eyes flickered black, that he recognized the name.

"Sounds like he deserved it, then," he said nonchalantly. "Or is gonna deserve it. Whatever."

"No - you don't get it." Sam started to argue, even though he couldn't say the response came as a surprise to him. Or that he didn't share at least some of Dean's feelings after the phone call, and knowing what Kubrik had helped Gordon do to Dean. "If this is gonna happen, I don't know the exact day, but I know the time down to the minute." Something else came back to him. "And I saw a street sign! It had a really unique name, so. I bet you we could find this place, a-and save these people."

"Why in the hell would you want to though, Sam?" Dean demanded. "I'm  _intimately_  familiar with that Kubrik asshole, trust me." His fingertips went to his solar plexus, tracing out the deep, messy stab wound he'd had there when he'd first come to Sam. "Far as I'm concerned, you'd be better off giving him the same treatment you gave Gordon. Or, even better! Letting these demons do it for you."

"So you just wanna write that woman and her kids off as collateral, huh?" Sam asked flatly.

"Kubrik's an asshat." Dean stated it like a fact, which it pretty much was. "If he's staying with these people, then they're probably asshats, too."

"That's not fair," Sam warned.

"Oh, isn't it?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Sam, the last thing we need right now's to get involved with demons who sound like they're goin' around pickin' off hunters."

Sam squinted at him. "How d'you know that's what they're doing?"

"'Cause I'm one of the sons of bitches who suggested we do that," Dean ground out. "Back when I was still on the other team. It's a war, and hunters're the enemy soldiers. 'Specially ones who make a living outta fucking with demons, like Gordon's crew."

Sam was silent. The information was horrifying, but not surprising. Dean, though, was staring at him, eyes black again, like he expected Sam to throw him out. Maybe even like he halfway wanted him to.

It was a bad time to start shivering, but Sam couldn't help it. As warm as it was in the beach house, he was wet, and standing still.

"You're still sick, too." Sam's utter lack of reaction seemed to have calmed Dean down some, so that must've been the right move. "I told you we weren't gonna leave after one or two days."

" _Unless_  something major happened, and I think this qualifies," Sam argued. "Dean, look, it's not even about Kubrik. It's got nothing to do with him. I hate the guy as much as you do, for hurting you, and palling around with Gordon, and even for that call last week, petty as that is."

He was really getting cold now. He turned to go get his towel out of the mudroom and at least dry off, but an invisible touch stopped him. Sam turned back to Dean, who apparently wasn't letting him go anywhere until they worked through this.

"It was him who called you?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Yeah." Sam frowned. "Did I...did I not mention that?" He tried to remember, then shook his head. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that this is about...doing the right thing. Being better than Kubrik is. Y'know?"

"Don't quite see how putting our asses on the line to save a guy who stabbed me and harassed you makes us 'better' than him," Dean replied. "Can't we just not stab and harass people?"

"Stabbing's about sixty percent of our job...look, can I go grab my towel?" Sam pleaded, hugging himself.

"Sure, soon as you admit you're being a dick and agree that we ain't doin' this."

"I can't know something bad's gonna happen and just do  _nothing_!" Sam exclaimed. "And you had to know that when you signed on."

Dean's eyes were still black. As he and Sam stared at each other, Sam shoved his frustration aside, and forcibly reminded himself they were partners.

"I understand," Sam began, taking a deep breath, "why you don't wanna do this. I get you're worried about me." Dean's chin dipped, maybe a nod, maybe not. "But I'm hoping you can understand why I feel like I've gotta save these people. And I trust you to take care of me, so you've gotta trust me to take care of myself. I know my limits."

There was a pregnant pause. Then Dean groaned loudly, the black fading from his eyes, smoke retreating into his pupils.

"Okay, fine, don't need another heart-to-heart," Dean grumbled, rubbing at his face with both hands. "Sometimes I really, really hate being in love with you. With all your feelings." He dropped his hands and fixed Sam with a hard stare. "We're gonna have some ground rules, though."

Sam nodded. That was fair.

"One," Dean began, holding up a finger. "Like I said, you're still sick, so you're gonna stay outta the actual combat as much as possible." He waited, but Sam kept himself from protesting. Barely. "Two. Things go sideways, I'm teleporting you right back here...and three: we're holing up again once this is all over, so you can finish getting better." He eyed Sam. "And so we can figure this out. We still don't know you're really seeing the future, and if you are, why? And how?"

"Believe me, I want answers just as much as you," Sam assured.

"More, probably," Dean replied. "Nerd." He cleared his throat. "Okay. Dry off, get dressed, and find me an address. Then we'll just hope we make it there in time, I guess."


End file.
